AX' 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the 

FRANCIS  P.  FARQUHAR 
EXPLORATION  LIBRARY 

Gift  of 

THE  MARJORY  BRIDGE  FARQUHAR 
1972  TRUST 


THE   SONG   OF   HUGH    GLASS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE    SONG    OF 
HUGH   GLASS 


BY 
JOHN  G.   NEIHARDT 


fforfc 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
'915 

All  rtfkts  restrvtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1915, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  elcctrotyped.     Published  October,  1915. 


Nortoooti 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  <fe  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mas 8.,  U.S.A. 


TO   SIGURD,    SCARCELY   THREE 

When  you  are  old  enough  to  know 
The  joys  of  kite  and  boat  and  bow 
And  other  suchlike  splendid  things 
That  boyhood's  rounded  decade  brings, 
I  shall  not  give  you  tropes  and  rhymes ; 
But,  rising  to  those  rousing  times, 
I  shall  ply  well  the  craft  I  know 
Of  shaping  kite  and  boat  and  bow, 
For  you  shall  teach  me  once  again 
The  goodly  art  of  being  ten. 

Meanwhile,  as  on  a  rainy  day 

When  'tis  not  possible  to  play, 

The  while  you  do  your  best  to  grow 

I  ply  the  other  craft  I  know 

And  strive  to  build  for  you  the  mood 

Of  daring  and  of  fortitude 

With  fitted  word  and  shapen  phrase, 

Against  those  later  wonder-days 

When  first  you  glimpse  the  world  of  men 

Beyond  the  bleaker  side  of  ten. 


NOTE 

THE  following  narrative  is  based  upon  an  episode  taken 
from  that  much  neglected  portion  of  our  history,  the  era 
of  the  American  Fur  Trade.  My  interest  in  that  period 
may  be  said  to  have  begun  at  the  age  of  six  when,  cling- 
ing to  the  forefinger  of  my  father,  I  discovered  the  Mis- 
souri River  from  a  bluff  top  at  Kansas  City.  It  was  flood 
time,  and  the  impression  I  received  was  deep  and  lasting. 
Even  now  I  cannot  think  of  that  stream  without  a  thrill 
of  awe  and  something  of  the  reverence  one  feels  for 
mighty  things.  It  was  for  me  what  the  sea  must  have 
been  to  the  Greek  boys  of  antiquity.  And  as  those  an- 
cient boys  must  have  been  eager  to  hear  of  perils  nobly 
encountered  on  the  deep  and  in  the  lands  adjacent,  so 
was  I  eager  to  learn  of  the  heroes  who  had  travelled  my 
river  as  an  imperial  road.  Nor  was  I  disappointed  in 
what  I  learned  of  them  ;  for  they  seemed  to  me  in  every 
way  equal  to  the  heroes  of  old.  I  came  to  think  of  them 
with  a  sense  of  personal  ownership,  for  any  one  of  many 
of  them  might  have  been  my  grandfather  —  and  so  a  little 
of  their  purple  fell  on  me.  As  I  grew  older  and  came 
to  possess  more  of  my  inheritance,  I  began  to  see  that 
what  had  enthralled  me  was,  in  fact,  of  the  stuff  of  sagas, 


viii  NOTE 

a  genuine  epic  cycle  in  the  rough.  Furthermore,  I  real- 
ized that  this  raw  material  had  been  undergoing  a  process 
of  digestion  in  my  consciousness,  corresponding  in  a  way 
to  the  process  of  infinite  repetition  and  fond  elaboration 
which,  as  certain  scholars  tell  us,  foreran  the  heroic  nar- 
ratives of  old  tune. 

I  decided  that  some  day  I  would  begin  to  tell  these 
hero  tales  in  verse;  and  in  1908,  as  a  preparation  for 
what  I  had  in  mind,  I  descended  the  Missouri  in  an 
open  boat,  and  also  ascended  the  Yellowstone  for  a  con- 
siderable distance.  On  the  upper  river  the  country  was 
practically  unchanged  ;  and  for  one  familiar  with  what 
had  taken  place  there,  it  was  no  difficult  feat  of  the 
imagination  to  revive  the  details  of  that  time  —  the  men, 
the  trails,  the  boats,  the  trading  posts  where  veritable 
satraps  once  ruled  under  the  sway  of  the  American  Fur 
Company. 

The  Hugh  Glass  episode  is  to  be  found  in  Chitten- 
den's  "History  of  the  American  Fur  Trade"  where  it 
is  quoted  from  its  three  printed  sources  :  the  Missouri 
Intelligencer,  Sage's  "Scenes  in  the  Rocky  Mountains," 
and  Cooke's  "Scenes  in  the  United  States  Army."  The 
present  narrative  begins  after  that  military  fiasco  known 
as  the  Leavenworth  Campaign  against  the  Aricaras,  which 
took  place  at  the  mouth  of  the  Grand  River  in  what  is 

now  South  Dakota. 

J.  G.  N. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.    GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR        ....  1 

II.    THE  AWAKENING 26 

III.  THE  CRAWL 37 

IV.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST      ....  94 
V.    JAMIE 109 


SONG   OF    HUGH    GLASS 
I 

GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR 
The  year  was  eighteen  hundred  twenty  three. 

TWAS  when  the  guns  that  blustered  at  the  Ree 
Had  ceased  to  brag,  and  ten  score  martial  clowns 
Turned  from  the  unwhipped  Aricara  towns, 
Earning  the  scornful  laughter  of  the  Sioux. 
A  withering  blast  the  arid  South  still  blew, 
And  creeks  ran  thin  beneath  the  glaring  sky; 
For  'twas  a  month  ere  honking  geese  would  fly 
Southward  before  the  Great  White  Hunter's  face : 
And  many  generations  of  their  race, 
As  bow-flung  arrows,  now  have  fallen  spent. 

It  happened  then  that  Major  Henry  went 
With  eighty  trappers  up  the  dwindling  Grand, 
Bound  through  the  weird,  unfriending  barren-land 
For  where  the  Big  Horn  meets  the  Yellowstone ; 
And  old  Hugh  Glass  went  with  them. 

Large  of  bone, 


2  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Deep-chested,  that  his  great  heart  might  have 

play, 

Gray-bearded,  gray  of  eye  and  crowned  with  gray 
Was  Glass.     It  seemed  he  never  had  been  young; 
And,  for  the  grudging  habit  of  his  tongue, 
None  knew  the  place  or  season  of  his  birth. 
Slowly  he  'woke  to  anger  or  to  mirth ; 
Yet  none  laughed   louder  when  the  rare  mood 

fell, 

And  hate  in  him  was  like  a  still,  white  hell, 
A  thing  of  doom  not  lightly  reconciled. 
What  memory  he  kept  of  wife  or  child 
Was  never  told ;   for  when  his  comrades  sat 
About  the  evening  fire  with  pipe  and  chat, 
Exchanging  talk  of  home  and  gentler  days, 
Old  Hugh  stared  long  upon  the  pictured  blaze, 
And  what  he  saw  went  upward  in  the  smoke. 

But  once,  as  with  an  inner  lightning  stroke, 
The  veil  was  rent,  and  briefly  men  discerned 
What  pent-up  fires  of  selfless  passion  burned 
Beneath  the  still  gray  smoldering  of  him. 
There  was  a  rakehell  lad,  called  Little  Jim, 
Jamieior  Petit  Jacques ;   for  scarce  began 
The  downy  beard  to  mark  him  for  a  man. 
Blue-eyed  was  he  and  femininely  fair. 
A  maiden  might  have  coveted  his  hair 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  3 

That  trapped  the  sunlight  in  its  tangled  skein : 
So,  tardily,  outflowered  the  wild  blond  strain 
That  gutted  Rome  grown  overfat  in  sloth. 
A  Ganymedes  haunted  by  a  Goth 
Was  Jamie.     When  the  restive  ghost  was  laid, 
He  seemed  some  fancy-ridden  child  who  played 
At  manliness  'mid  all  those  bearded  men. 
The  sternest  heart  was  drawn  to  Jamie  then. 
But  his  one  mood  ne'er  linked  two  hours  together. 
To  schedule  Jamie's  way,  as  prairie  weather, 
Was  to  get  fact  by  wedding  doubt  and  whim ; 
For  very  lightly  slept  that  ghost  in  him. 
No  cloudy  brooding  went  before  his  wrath 
That,  like  a  thunder-squall,  recked  not  its  path, 
But  raged  upon  what  happened  in  its  way. 
Some  called  him  brave  who  saw  him  on  that  day 
When  Ashley  stormed  a  bluff  town  of  the  Ree, 
And  all  save  beardless  Jamie  turned  to  flee 
For  shelter  from  that  steep,  lead-harrowed  slope. 
Yet,  hardly  courage,  but  blind  rage  agrope 
Inspired  the  foolish  deed. 

'Twas  then  old  Hugh 
Tore  off  the  gray  mask,  and  the  heart  shone 

through. 

For,  halting  in  a  dry,  flood-guttered  draw, 
The  trappers  rallied,  looked  aloft  and  saw 


4  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

That  travesty  of  war  against  the  sky. 

Out  of  a  breathless  hush,  the  old  man's  cry 

Leaped  shivering,  an  anguished  cry  and  wild 

As  of  some  mother  fearing  for  her  child, 

And  up  the  steep  he  went  with  mighty  bounds. 

Long  afterward  the  story  went  the  rounds, 

How  old  Glass  fought  that  day.     With  gun  for 

club, 

Grim  as  a  grizzly  fighting  for  a  cub, 
He  laid  about  him,  cleared  the  way,  and  so, 
Supported  by  the  firing  from  below, 
Brought  Jamie  back.     And  when  the  deed  was 

done, 

Taking  the  lad  upon  his  knee:   "My  Son, 
Brave  men  are  not  ashamed  to  fear,"  said  Hugh, 
"And  I've  a  mind  to  make  a  man  of  you ; 
So  here's  your  first  acquaintance  with  the  law!" 
Whereat  he  spanked  the  lad  with  vigorous  paw 
And,  having  done  so,  limped  away  to  bed ; 
For,  wounded  in  the  hip,  the  old  man  bled. 

It  was  a  month  before  he  hobbled  out, 
And  Jamie,  like  a  fond  son,  hung  about 
The  old  man's  tent  and  waited  upon  him. 
And  often  would  the  deep  gray  eyes  grow  dim 
With  gazing  on  the  boy ;   and  there  would  go  — 
As  though  Spring-fire  should  waken  out  of  snow  — 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  5 

A  wistful  light  across  that  mask  of  gray. 
And  once  Hugh  smiled  his  enigmatic  way, 
While  poring  long  on  Jamie's  face,  and  said : 
"So  with  their  sons  are  women  brought  to  bed, 
Sore  wounded !" 

Thus  united  were  the  two : 

And  some  would  dub  the  old  man  'Mother  Hugh' ; 
While  those  in  whom  all  living  waters  sank 
To  some  dull  inner  pool  that  teemed  and  stank 
With  formless  evil,  into  that  morass 
Gazed,  and  saw  darkly  there,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  foul  shape  of  some  weakly  envied  sin. 
For  each  man  builds  a  world  and  dwells  therein. 
Nor  could  these  know  what  mocking  ghost  of 

Spring 

Stirred  Hugh's  gray  world  with  dreams  of  blossom- 
ing 

That  wooed  no  seed  to  swell  or  bird  to  sing. 
So  might  a  dawn-struck  digit  of  the  moon 
Dream  back  the  rain  of  some  old  lunar  June 
And  ache  through  all  its  craters  to  be  green. 
Little  they  know  what  life's  one  love  can  mean, 
Who  shrine  it  in  a  bower  of  peace  and  bliss : 
Pang  dwelling  in  a  puckered  cicatrice 
More  truly  figures  this  belated  love. 
Yet  very  precious  was  the  hurt  thereof, 
Grievous  to  bear,  too  dear  to  cast  away. 


6  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Now  Jamie  went  with  Hugh ;   but  who  shall  say 

If  'twas  a  warm  heart  or  a  wind  of  whim, 

Love,  or  the  rover's  teasing  itch  in  him, 

Moved  Jamie  ?     Howsoe'er,  'twas  good  to  see 

Graybeard  and  Goldhair  riding  knee  to  knee, 

One  age  in  young  adventure.     They  who  saw 

Likened  unto  a  February  thaw 

Hugh's  mellow  mood  those  days;   and  truly  so, 

For  when  the  tempering  Southwest  wakes  to  blow 

A  phantom  April  over  melting  snow, 

Deep  in  the  North  some  new  white  wrath  is 

brewed. 

Out  of  a  dim-trailed  inner  solitude 
The  old  man  summoned  many  a  stirring  story, 
Lived  grimly  once,  but  now  shot  through  with 

glory 
Caught  from  the  wondering  eyes  of  him  who 

heard  — 

Tales  jagged  with  the  bleak  unstudied  word, 
Stark  saga-stuff.     "A  fellow  that  I  knew," 
So  nameless  went  the  hero  that  was  Hugh  — 
A  mere  pelt  merchant,  as  it  seemed  to  him ; 
Yet  trailing  epic  thunders  through  the  dim, 
Whist  world  of  Jamie's  awe. 

And  so  they  went, 

One  heart,  it  seemed,  and  that  heart  well  content 
With  tale  and  snatch  of  song  and  careless  laughter. 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  7 

Never  before,  and  surely  never  after, 
The  gray  old  man  seemed  nearer  to  his  youth  — 
That  myth  that  somehow  had  to  be  the  truth, 
Yet  could  not  be  convincing  any  more. 

Now  when  the  days  of  travel  numbered  four 
And  nearer  drew  the  barrens  with  their  need, 
On  Glass,  the  hunter,  fell  the  task  to  feed 
Those  four  score  hungers  when  the  game  should 

fail. 

For  no  young  eye  could  trace  so  dim  a  trail, 
Or  line  the  rifle  sights  with  speed  so  true. 
Nor  might  the  wistful  Jamie  go  with  Hugh ; 
"For,"  so  Hugh  chaffed,  "my  trick  of  getting 

game 
Might  teach  young  eyes   to    put   old    eyes   to 

shame. 

An  old  dog  never  risks  his  only  bone." 
'  Wolves  prey  in  packs,  the  lion  hunts  alone  * 
Is  somewhat  nearer  what  he  should  have  meant. 

And  so  with  merry  jest  the  old  man  went; 
And  so  they  parted  at  an  unseen  gate 
That  even  then  some  gust  of  moody  fate 
Clanged  to  betwixt  them ;   each  a  tale  to  spell  — 
One  in  the  nightmare  scrawl  of  dreams  from  hell, 
One  in  the  blistering  trail  of  days  a-crawl, 


8  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Venomous  footed.     Nor  might  it  ere  befall 
These  two  should  meet  in  after  days  and  be 
Graybeard  and  Goldhair  riding  knee  to  knee, 
Recounting  with  a  bluff,  heroic  scorn 
The  haps  of  either  tale. 

'Twas  early  morn 

When  Hugh  went  forth,  and  all  day  Jamie  rode 
With   Henry's  men,  while  more   and   more  the 

goad 

Of  eager  youth  sore  fretted  him,  and  made 
The  dusty  progress  of  the  cavalcade 
The  journey  of  a  snail  flock  to  the  moon ; 
Until  the  shadow-weaving  afternoon 
Turned  many  fingers  nightward  —  then  he  fled, 
Pricking  his  horse,  nor  deigned  to  turn  his  head 
At  any  dwindling  voice  of  reprimand ; 
For  somewhere  in  the  breaks  along  the  Grand 
Surely  Hugh  waited  with  a  goodly  kill. 
Hoofbeats  of  ghostly  steeds  on  every  hill, 
Mysterious,  muffled  hoofs  on  every  bluff! 
Spurred  echo  horses  clattering  up  the  rough 
Confluent  draws  !     These  flying  Jamie  heard. 
The  lagging  air  droned  like  the  drowsy  word 
Of  one  who  tells  weird  stories  late  at  night. 
Half  headlong  joy  and  half  delicious  fright, 
His  day-dream's  pace  outstripped  the  plunging 

steed's. 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  9 

Lean  galloper  in  a  wind  of  splendid  deeds, 
Like  Hugh's,  he  seemed  unto  himself,  until, 
Snorting,  a-haunch  above  a  breakneck  hill, 
The  horse  stopped  short  —  then  Jamie  was  aware 
Of  lonesome  flatlands  fading  skyward  there 
Beneath  him,  and,  zigzag  on  either  hand, 
A  purple  haze  denoted  how  the  Grand 
Forked  wide  'twixt  sunset  and  the  polar  star. 

A-tiptoe  in  the  stirrups,  gazing  far, 
He  saw  no  Hugh  nor  any  moving  thing, 
Save  for  a  welter  of  cawing  crows,  a- wing 
About  some  banquet  in  the  further  hush. 
One  faint  star,  set  above  the  fading  blush 
Of  sunset,  saw  the  coming  night,  and  grew. 
With  hand  for  trumpet,  Jamie  gave  halloo ; 
And  once  again.     For  answer,  the  horse  neighed. 
Some  vague  mistrust  now  made  him  half  afraid  — 
Some  formless  dread  that  stirred  beneath  the  will 
As  far  as  sleep  from  waking. 

Down  the  hill, 

Close-footed  in  the  skitter  of  the  shale, 
The  spurred  horse  floundered  to  the  solid  vale 
And  galloped  to  the  northwest,  whinnying. 
The  outstripped  air  moaned  like  a  wounded  thing; 
But  Jamie  gave  the  lie  unto  his  dread. 
"The  old  man's  camping  out  to-night,"  he  said, 


io  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

"  Somewhere  about  the  forks,  as  like  as  not ; 
And  there'll  be  hunks  of  fresh  meat  steaming  hot, 
And  fighting  stories  by  a  dying  fire!" 

The  sunset  reared  a  luminous  phantom  spire 
That,  crumbling,  sifted  ashes  down  the  sky. 

Now,  pausing,  Jamie  sent  a  searching  cry 

Into  the  twilit  river-skirting  brush, 

And  in  the  vast  denial  of  the  hush 

The  champing  of  the  snaffled  horse  seemed  loud. 

Then,  startling  as  a  voice  beneath  a  shroud, 
A  muffled  boom  woke  somewhere  up  the  stream 
And,  like  vague  thunder  hearkened  in  a  dream, 
Drawled  back  to  silence.     Now,  with  heart  a- 

bound, 

Keen  for  the  quarter  of  the  perished  sound, 
The  lad  spurred  gaily ;  for  he  doubted  not 
His  cry  had  brought  Hugh's  answering  rifle  shot. 
The  laggard  air  was  like  a  voice  that  sang, 
And  Jamie  half  believed  he  sniffed  the  tang 
Of  woodsmoke  and  the  smell  of  flesh  a-roast ; 
When  presently  before  him,  like  a  ghost, 
Upstanding,  huge  in  twilight,  arms  flung  wide, 
A  gray  form  loomed.     The  wise  horse  reared  and 

shied, 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  11 

Snorting  his  inborn  terror  of  the  bear ! 
And  in  the  whirlwind  of  a  moment  there, 
Betwixt  the   brute's   hoarse   challenge    and   the 

charge, 

The  lad  beheld,  upon  the  grassy  marge 
Of  a  small  spring  that  bullberries  stooped  to  scan, 
A  ragged  heap  that  should  have  been  a  man, 
A  huddled,  broken  thing  —  and  it  was  Hugh ! 

There  was  no  need  for  any  closer  view. 

As,  on  the  instant  of  a  lightning  flash 

Ere  yet  the  split  gloom  closes  with  a  crash, 

A  landscape  stares  with  every  circumstance 

Of  rock  and  shrub  —  just  so  the  fatal  chance 

Of  Hugh's  one  shot,  made  futile  with  surprise, 

Was  clear  to  Jamie.     Then  before  his  eyes 

The  light  whirled  in  a  giddy  dance  of  red ; 

And,  doubting  not  the  crumpled  thing  was  dead 

That  was  a  friend,  with  but  a  skinning  knife 

He  would  have  striven  for  the  hated  life 

That  triumphed  there  :  but  with  a  shriek  of  fright 

The  mad  horse  bolted  through  the  falling  night, 

And  Jamie,  fumbling  at  his  rifle  boot, 

Heard  the  brush  crash  behind  him  where  the  brute 

Came  headlong,  close  upon  the  straining  flanks. 

But  when  at  length  low-lying  river  banks  — 

White  rubble  in  the  gloaming  —  glimmered  near, 


12  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

A  swift  thought  swept  the  mind  of  Jamie  clear 
Of  anger  and  of  anguish  for  the  dead. 
Scarce  seemed  the  raging  beast  a  thing  to  dread, 
But  some  foul-playing  braggart  to  outwit. 
Now  hurling  all  his  strength  upon  the  bit, 
He  sank  the  spurs,  and  with  a  groan  of  pain 
The  plunging  horse,  obedient  to  the  rein, 
Swerved  sharply  streamward.     Sliddering  in  the 

sand, 

The  bear  shot  past.     And  suddenly  the  Grand 
Loomed  up  beneath  and  rose  to  meet  the  pair 
That  rode  a  moment  upon  empty  air, 
Then  smote  the  water  in  a  shower  of  spray. 
And  when  again  the  slowly  ebbing  day 
Came  back  to  them,  a-drip  from  nose  to  flank, 
The  steed  was  scrambling  up  the  further  bank, 
And  Jamie  saw  across  the  narrow  stream, 
Like  some  vague  shape  of  fury  in  a  dream, 
The  checked  beast  ramping  at  the  water's  rim. 
Doubt  struggled  with  a  victor's  thrill  in  him, 
As,  hand  to  buckle  of  the  rifle-sheath, 
He  thought  of  dampened  powder;   but  beneath 
The  rawhide  flap  the  gun  lay  snug  and  dry. 
Then  as  the  horse  wheeled  and  the  mark  went  by — 
A  patch  of  shadow  dancing  upon  gray  — 
He  fired.     A  sluggish  thunder  trailed  away; 
The  spreading  smoke-rack  lifted  slow,  and  there, 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR  13 

Floundering  in  a  seethe  of  foam,  the  bear 
Hugged  yielding  water  for  the  foe  that  slew ! 

Triumphant,  Jamie  wondered  what  old  Hugh 
Would  think  of  such  a  "trick  of  getting  game"  ! 
"Young  eyes"  indeed  !  —  And  then  that  memory 

came, 

Like  a  dull  blade  thrust  back  into  a  wound. 
One  moment  'twas  as  though  the  lad  had  swooned 
Into  a  dream-adventure,  waking  there 
To  sicken  at  the  ghastly  land,  a-stare 
Like  some  familiar  face  gone  strange  at  last. 
But  as  the  hot  tears  came,  the  moment  passed. 
Song  snatches,  broken  tales  —  a  troop  forlorn, 
Like  merry  friends  of  eld  come  back  to  mourn  — 
Overwhelmed  him  there.     And  when  the  black 

bulk  churned 

The  star-flecked  stream  no  longer,  Jamie  turned, 
Recrossed  the  river  and  rode  back  to  Hugh. 

A  burning  twist  of  valley  grasses  threw 
Blear  light  about  the  region  of  the  spring. 
Then  Jamie,  torch  aloft  and  shuddering, 
Knelt  there  beside  his  friend,  and  moaned :    "O 

Hugh, 

If  I  had  been  with  you  —  just  been  with  you  ! 
We  might  be  laughing  now  —  and  you  are  dead." 


14  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

With  gentle  hand  he  turned  the  hoary  head 
That  he  might  see  the  good  gray  face  again. 
The  torch  burned  out,  the  dark  swooped  back,  and 

then 

His  grief  was  frozen  with  an  icy  plunge 
In  horror.     'Twas  as  though  a  bloody  sponge 
Had  wiped  the  pictured  features  from  a  slate ! 
So,  pillaged  by  an  army  drunk  with  hate, 
Home  stares  upon  the  homing  refugee. 
A  red  gout  clung  where  either  brow  should  be ; 
The  haughty  nose  lay  crushed  amid  the  beard, 
Thick  with  slow  ooze,  whence  like  a  devil  leered 
The  battered  mouth  convulsed  into  a  grin. 

Nor  did  the  darkness  cover,  for  therein 
Some  torch,  unsnuffed,  with  blear  funereal  flare, 
Still  painted  upon  black  that  alien  stare 
To  make  the  lad  more  terribly  alone. 

Then  in  the  gloom  there  rose  a  broken  moan, 
Quick   stifled;     and   it   seemed   that   something 

stirred 

About  the  body.     Doubting  that  he  heard, 
The  lad  felt,  with  a  panic  catch  of  breath, 
Pale  vagrants  from  the  legendry  of  death 
Potential  in  the  shadows  there.     But  when 
The  motion  and  the  moaning  came  again, 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR          15 

Hope,  like  a  shower  at  daybreak,  cleansed  the 

dark, 

And  in  the  lad's  heart  something  like  a  lark 
Sang     morning.     Bending     low,     he     crooned : 

"Hugh,  Hugh, 
It's  Jamie  —  don't  you  know?  —  I'm  here  with 

you." 

As  one  who  in  a  nightmare  strives  to  tell  — 
Shouting  across  the  gap  of  some  dim  hell  — 
What  things  assail  him ;  so  it  seemed  Hugh  heard, 
And  flung  some  unintelligible  word 
Athwart  the  muffling  distance  of  his  swoon. 

Now  kindled  by  the  yet  unrisen  moon, 
The  East  went  pale ;   and  like  a  naked  thing 
A  little  wind  ran  vexed  and  shivering 
Along  the  dusk,  till  Jamie  shivered  too 
And  worried  lest  'twere  bitter  cold  where  Hugh 
Hung  clutching  at  the  bleak,  raw  edge  of  life. 
So  Jamie  rose,  and  with  his  hunting-knife 
Split  wood  and  built  a  fire.     Nor  did  he  fear 
The  staring  face  now,  for  he  found  it  dear 
With  the  warm  presence  of  a  friend  returned. 
The  fire  made  cozy  chatter  as  it  burned, 
And  reared  a  tent  of  light  in  that  lone  place. 
Then  Jamie  set  about  to  bathe  the  face 


16  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

With  water  from  the  spring,  oft  crooning  low, 
"It's  Jamie  here  beside  you  —  don't  you  know  ?" 
Yet  came  no  answer  save  the  labored  breath 
Of  one  who  wrestled  mightily  with  Death 
Where  watched  no  referee  to  call  the  foul. 

The  moon  now  cleared  the  world's  end,  and  the 

owl 

Gave  voice  unto  the  wizardry  of  light ; 
While  in  some  dim-lit  chancel  of  the  night, 
Snouts  to  the  goddess,  wolfish  corybants 
Intoned  their  wild  antiphonary  chants  — 
The  oldest,  saddest  worship  in  the  world. 

And  Jamie  watched  until  the  firelight  swirled 
Softly  about  him.     Sound  and  glimmer  merged 
To  make  an  eerie  void,  through  which  he  urged 
With  frantic  spur  some  whirlwind  of  a  steed 
That  made  the  way  as  glass  beneath  his  speed, 
Yet  scarce  kept  pace  with  something  dear  that  fled 
On,  ever  on  —  just  half  a  dream  ahead  : 
Until  it  seemed,  by  some  vague  shape  dismayed, 
He  cried  aloud  for  Hugh,  and  the  steed  neighed  — 
A  neigh  that  was  a  burst  of  light,  not  sound. 
And  Jamie,  sprawling  on  the  dewy  ground, 
Knew  that  his  horse  was  sniffing  at  his  hair, 
While,  mumbling  through  the  early  morning  air, 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR     17 

There  came  a  roll  of  many  hoofs  —  and  then 
He  saw  the  swinging  troop  of  Henry's  men 
A-canter  up  the  valley  with  the  sun. 

Of  all  Hugh's  comrades  crowding  round,  not  one 
But  would  have  given  heavy  odds  on  Death ; 
For,  though  the  graybeard  fought  with  sobbing 

breath, 

No  man,  it  seemed,  might  break  upon  the  hip 
So  stern  a  wrestler  with  the  strangling  grip 
That  made  the  neck  veins  like  a  purple  thong 
Tangled  with  knots.     Nor  might  Hugh  tarry  long 
There  where  the  trail  forked  outward   far  and 

dim; 

Or  so  it  seemed.     And  when  they  lifted  him, 
His  moan  went  treble  like  a  song  of  pain, 
He  was  so  tortured.     Surely  it  were  vain 
To  hope  he  might  endure  the  toilsome  ride 
Across  the  barrens.     Better  let  him  bide 
There  on  the  grassy  couch  beside  the  spring. 
And,  furthermore,  it  seemed  a  foolish  thing 
That  eighty  men  should  wait  the  issue  there ; 
For  dying  is  a  game  of  solitaire 
And  all  men  play  the  losing  hand  alone. 

But  when  at  noon  he  had  not  ceased  to  moan, 
And  fought  still  like  the  strong  man  he  had  been, 


18  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

There  grew  a  vague  mistrust  that  he  might  win, 

And  all  this  be  a  tale  for  wondering  ears. 

So  Major  Henry  called  for  volunteers, 

Two  men  among  the  eighty  who  would  stay 

To  wait  on  Glass  and  keep  the  wolves  away 

Until  he  did  whatever  he  should  do. 

All  quite  agreed  'twas  bitter  bread  for  Hugh, 

Yet  none,  save  Jamie,  felt  in  duty  bound 

To  run  the  risk  —  until  the  hat  went  round, 

And  pity  wakened,  at  the  silver's  clink, 

In  Jules  Le  Bon. 

'He  would  not  have  them  think 
That  mercenary  motives  prompted  him. 
But  somehow  just  the  grief  of  Little  Jim 
Was  quite  sufficient  —  not  to  mention  Hugh. 
He  weighed  the  risk.     As  everybody  knew, 
The  Rickarees  were  scattered  to  the  West : 
The  late  campaign  had  stirred  a  hornet's  nest 
To  fill  the  land  with  stingers  (which  was  so), 
And  yet  — ' 

Three  days  a  southwest  wind  may  blow 
False  April  with  no  drop  of  dew  at  heart. 
So  Jules  ran  on,  while,  ready  for  the  start, 
The  pawing  horses  nickered  and  the  men, 
Impatient  in  their  saddles,  yawned.     And  then, 
With  brief  advice,  a  round  of  bluff  good-byes 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR    19 

And  some  few  reassuring  backward  cries, 
The  troop  rode  up  the  valley  with  the  day. 

Intent  upon  his  friend,  with  naught  to  say, 

Sat  Jamie ;  while  Le  Bon  discussed  at  length 

The  reasonable  limits  of  man's  strength  — 

A  self-conducted  dialectic  strife 

That  made  absurd  all  argument  for  life 

And  granted  but  a  fresh-dug  hole  for  Hugh. 

'Twas  half  like  murder.     Yet  it  seemed  Jules  knew 

Unnumbered  tales  accordant  with  the  case, 

Each  circumstantial  as  to  time  and  place 

And  furnished  with  a  death's  head  colophon. 

Vivaciously  despondent,  Jules  ran  on. 
'Did  he  not  share  his  judgment  with  the  rest  ? 
You  see,  'twas  some  contusion  of  the  chest 
That  did  the  trick  —  heart,  lungs  and  all  that, 

mixed 

In  such  a  way  they  never  could  be  fixed. 
A  bear's  hug  —  ugh ! ' 

And  often  Jamie  winced 
At  some  knife-thrust  of  reason  that  convinced 
Yet  left  him  sick  with  unrelinquished  hope. 
As  one  who  in  a  darkened  room  might  grope 
For  some  beloved  face,  with  shuddering 
Anticipation  of  a  clammy  thing ; 


20  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

So  in  the  lad's  heart  sorrow  fumbled  round 

For  some  old  joy  to  lean  upon,  and  found 

The  stark,  cold  something  Jamie  knew  was  there. 

Yet,  womanlike,  he  stroked  the  hoary  hair 

Or  bathed  the  face;    while  Jules  found  tales  to 

tell  — 
Lugubriously  garrulous. 

Night  fell. 

At  sundown,  day-long  winds  are  like  to  veer; 
So,  summoning  a  mood  of  relished  fear, 
Le  Bon  remembered  dire  alarms  by  night  — 
The  swoop  of  savage  hordes,  the  desperate  fight 
Of  men  outnumbered  :   and,  like  him  of  old, 
In  all  that  made  Jules  shudder  as  he  told, 
His  the  great  part  —  a  man  by  field  and  flood 
Fate-tossed.     Upon  the  gloom  he  limned  in  blood 
Their  situation's  possibilities : 
Two  men  against  the  fury  of  the  Rees  — 
A  game  in  which  two  hundred  men  had  failed ! 
He  pointed  out  how  little  it  availed 
To  run  the  risk  for  one  as  good  as  dead ; 
Yet,  Jules  Le  Bon  meant  every  word  he  said, 
And  had  a  scalp  to  lose,  if  need  should  be. 

That  night  through  Jamie's  dreaming  swarmed 

the  Ree. 
Gray-souled,  he  wakened  to  a  dawn  of  gray, 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR          21 

And  felt  that  something  strong  had  gone  away, 

Nor  knew  what  thing.     Some  whisper  of  the  will 

Bade  him  rejoice  that  Hugh  was  living  still ; 

But  Hugh,  the  real,  seemed  somehow  otherwhere. 

Jules,  snug  and  snoring  in  his  blanket  there, 

Was  half  a  life  the  nearer.     Just  so,  pain 

Is  nearer  than  the  peace  we  seek  in  vain, 

And  by  its  very  sting  compelis  belief. 

Jules  woke,  and  with  a  fine  restraint  of  grief 

Saw  early  dissolution.     'One  more  night, 

And  then  the  poor  old  man  would  lose  the  fight  — 

Ah,  such  a  man!' 

A  day  and  night  crept  by, 
And  yet  the  stubborn  fighter  would  not  die, 
But  grappled  with  the  angel.     All  the  while, 
With  some  conviction,  but  with  more  of  guile, 
Jules  colonized  the  vacancy  with  Rees ; 
Till  Jamie  felt  that  looseness  of  the  knees 
That  comes  of  oozing  courage.     Many  men 
May  tower  for  a  white-hot  moment,  when 
The  wild  blood  surges  at  a  sudden  shock ; 
But  when,  insistent  as  a  ticking  clock, 
Blind  peril  haunts  and  whispers,  fewer  dare. 
Dread  hovered  in  the  hushed  and  moony  air 
The  long  night  through ;  nor  might  a  fire  be  lit, 
Lest  some  far-seeing  foe  take  note  of  it. 
And  day-long  Jamie  scanned  the  blank  sky  rim 


22  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

For  hoof-flung  dust  clouds ;  till  there  woke  in  him 
A  childish  anger  —  dumb  for  ruth  and  shame  — 
That  Hugh  so  dallied. 

But  the  fourth  dawn  came 
And  with  it  lulled  the  fight,  as  on  a  field 
Where  broken  armies  sleep  but  will  not  yield. 
Or  had  one  conquered  ?     Was  it  Hugh  or  Death  ? 
The   old   man    breathed   with   faintly  fluttering 

breath, 

Nor  did  his  body  shudder  as  before. 
Jules  triumphed  sadly.     'It  would  soon  be  o'er; 
So  men  grew  quiet  when  they  lost  their  grip 
And  did  not  care.     At  sundown  he  would  slip 
Into  the  deeper  silence.' 

Jamie  wept, 

Unwitting  how  a  furtive  gladness  crept 
Into  his  heart  that  gained  a  stronger  beat. 
So  cities,  long  beleaguered,  take  defeat  — 
Unto  themselves  half  traitors. 

Jules  began 

To  dig  a  hole  that  might  conceal  a  man ; 
And,  as  his  sheath  knife  broke  the  stubborn  sod, 
He  spoke  in  kindly  vein  of  Life  and  God 
And  Mutability  and  Rectitude. 
The  immemorial  funerary  mood 
Brought  tears,  mute  tribute  to  the  mother-dust ; 
And  Jamie,  seeing,  felt  each  cutting  thrust 
Less  like  a  stab  into  the  flesh  of  Hugh. 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR          23 

The  sun  crept  up  and  down  the  arc  of  blue 
And  through  the  air  a  chill  of  evening  ran ; 
But,  though  the  grave  yawned,  waiting  for  the 

man, 
The  man  seemed  scarce  yet  ready  for  the  grave. 

Now  prompted  by  a  coward  or  a  knave 
That  lurked  in  him,  Le  Bon  began  to  hear 
Faint  sounds  that  to  the  lad's  less  cunning  ear 
Were  silence ;   more  like  tremors  of  the  ground 
They  were,  Jules  said,  than  any  proper  sound  — 
Thus  one  detected  horsemen  miles  away. 
For  many  moments  big  with  fate,  he  lay, 
Ear  pressed  to  earth;    then  rose  and  shook  his 

head 
As  one  perplexed.     "There's  something  wrong," 

he  said. 

And  —  as  at  daybreak  whiten  winter  skies, 
Agape  and  staring  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
The  lad's  face  whitened  at  the  other's  word. 
Jules  could  not  quite  interpret  what  he  heard ; 
A  hundred  horse  might  noise  their  whereabouts 
In  just  that  fashion ;   yet  he  had  his  doubts. 
It  could  be  bison  moving,  quite  as  well. 
But  if  'twere  Rees  —  there'd  be  a  tale  to  tell 
That  two  men  he  might  name  should  never  hear. 
He  reckoned  scalps  that  Fall  were  selling  dear, 


24  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

In  keeping  with  the  limited  supply. 
Men,  fit  to  live,  were  not  afraid  to  die ! 

Then,  in  that  caution  suits  not  courage  ill, 
Jules  saddled  up  and  cantered  to  the  hill, 
A  white  dam  set  against  the  twilight  stream; 
And  as  a  horseman  riding  in  a  dream 
The  lad  beheld  him ;  watched  him  clamber  up 
To  where  the  dusk,  as  from  a  brimming  cup, 
Ran  over;   saw  him  pause  against  the  gloom, 
Portentous,  huge  —  a  brooder  upon  doom. 
What  did  he  look  upon  ? 

Some  moments  passed ; 
Then  suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  a  blast 
Of  wind,  keen-cutting  with  the  whips  of  sleet, 
Smote  horse  and  rider.    Haunched  on  huddled  feet, 
The  steed  shrank  from  the  ridge,  then,  rearing, 

wheeled 
And  took  the  rubbly  incline  fury-heeled. 

Those  days  and  nights,  like  seasons  creeping  slow, 
Had  told  on  Jamie.     Better  blow  on  blow 
Of  evil  hap,  with  doom  seen  clear  ahead, 
Than  that  monotonous,  abrasive  dread, 
Blind  gnawer  at  the  soul-thews  of  the  blind. 
Thin-worn,  the  last  heart-string  that  held  him 
kind; 


GRAYBEARD  AND  GOLDHAIR          25 

Strung  taut,  the  final  tie  that  kept  him  true 
Now  snapped  in  Jamie,  as  he  saw  the  two 
So  goaded  by  some  terrifying  sight. 
Death  riding  with  the  vanguard  of  the  Night, 
Life  dwindling  yonder  with  the  rear  of  Day ! 
What  choice  for  one  whom  panic  swept  away 
From  moorings  in  the  sanity  of  will  ? 

Jules  came  and  summed  the  vision  of  the  hill 
In  one  hoarse  cry  that  left  no  word  to  say : 
"Rees !     Saddle  up  !    We've  got  to  get  away !" 

Small  wit  had  Jamie  left  to  ferret  guile, 
But  fumblingly  obeyed  Le  Bon ;  the  while 
Jules  knelt  beside  the  man  who  could  not  flee : 
For  big  hearts  lack  not  time  for  charity 
However  thick  the  blows  of  fate  may  fall. 
Yet,  in  that  Jules  Le  Bon  was  practical, 
He  could  not  quite  ignore  a  hunting  knife, 
A  flint,  a  gun,  a  blanket  —  gear  of  life 
Scarce  suited  to  the  customs  of  the  dead  ! 

And  Hugh  slept  soundly  in  his  ample  bed, 
Star-canopied  and  blanketed  with  night, 
Unwitting  how  Venality  and  Fright 
Made  hot  the  westward  trail  of  Henry's  men. 


II 

THE  AWAKENING 

No  one  may  say  what  time  elapsed,  or  when 

The  slumberous  shadow  lifted  over  Hugh : 

But  some  globose  immensity  of  blue 

Enfolded  him  at  last,  within  whose  light 

He  seemed  to  float,  as  some  faint  swimmer  might, 

A  deep  beneath  and  overhead  a  deep. 

So  one  late  plunged  into  the  lethal  sleep, 

A  spirit  diver  fighting  for  his  breath, 

Swoops  through  the  many-fathomed  glooms  of 

death, 
Emerging  in  a  daylight  strange  and  new. 

Rousing  a  languid  wonder,  came  on  Hugh 
The  quiet,  steep-arched  splendor  of  the  day. 
Agrope  for  some  dim  memory,  he  lay 
Upon  his  back,  and  watched  a  lucent  fleece 
Fade  in  the  blue  profundity  of  peace 
As  did  the  memory  he  sought  in  vain. 
Then  with  a  stirring  of  mysterious  pain, 
26 


THE  AWAKENING  27 

Old  habit  of  the  body  bade  him  rise; 
But  when  he  would  obey,  the  hollow  skies 
Broke  as  a  bubble  punctured,  and  went  out. 

Again  he  woke,  and  with  a  drowsy  doubt, 

Remote  unto  his  horizontal  gaze 

He  saw  the  world's  end  kindle  to  a  blaze 

And  up  the  smoky  steep  pale  heralds  run. 

And  when  at  length  he  knew  it  for  the  sun, 

Dawn  found  the  darkling  reaches  of  his  mind, 

Where  in  the  twilight  he  began  to  find 

Strewn  shards  and  torsos  of  familiar  things. 

As  from  the  rubble  in  a  place  of  kings 

Men  school  the  dream  to  build  the  past  anew, 

So  out  of  dream  and  fragment  builded  Hugh, 

And  came  upon  the  reason  of  his  plight  : 

The   bear's   attack  —  the   shot  —  and   then   the 

night 
Wherein  men  talked  as  ghosts  above  a  grave. 

Some  consciousness  of  will  the  memory  gave : 
He  would  get  up.     The  painful  effort  spent 
Made  the  wide  heavens  billow  as  a  tent 
Wind-struck,  the  shaken  prairie  sag  and  roll. 
Some  moments  with  an  effort  at  control 
He  swayed,  half  raised  upon  his  arms,  until 
The  dizzy  cosmos  righted,  and  was  still. 


28  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Then  would  he  stand  erect  and  be  again 
The  man  he  was  :   an  overwhelming  pain 
Smote  him  to  earth,  and  one  unruly  limb 
Refused  the  weight  and  crumpled  under  him. 

Sickened  with  torture  he  lay  huddled  there, 
Gazing  about  him  with  a  great  despair 
Proportioned  to  the  might  that  felt  the  chain. 
Far-flung  as  dawn,  collusive  sky  and  plain 
Stared  bleak  denial  back. 

Why  strive  at  all  ?  — 
That  vacancy  about  him  like  a  wall, 
Yielding  as  light,  a  granite  scarp  to  climb ! 
Some  little  waiting  on  the  creep  of  time, 
Abandonment  to  circumstance ;   and  then  — 

Here  flashed  a  sudden  thought  of  Henry's  men 
Into  his  mind  and  drove  the  gloom  away. 
They  would  be  riding  westward  with  the  day ! 
How  strange  he  had  forgot !     That  battered  leg 
Or  some  scalp  wound,  had  set  his  wits  a-beg  f 
Was  this  Hugh  Glass  to  whimper  like  a  squaw  ? 
Grimly  amused,  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  — 
The  empty  distance :   listened  long  and  heard  — 
Naught  but  the  twitter  of  a  lonely  bird 
That  emphasized  the  hush. 

Was  something  wrong  ? 


THE  AWAKENING  29 

'Twas  not  the  Major's  way  to  dally  long, 

And  surely  they  had  camped  not  far  behind. 

Now  woke  a  query  in  his  troubled  mind  — 

Where  was  his  horse  ?    Again  came  creeping  back 

The  circumstances  of  the  bear's  attack. 

He  had  dismounted,  thinking  at  the  spring 

To  spend  the  night  —  and  then  the  grisly  thing  — 

Of  course  the  horse  had  bolted ;   plain  enough ! 

But  why  was  all  the  soil  about  so  rough 

As  though  a  herd  of  horses  had  been  there  ? 

The  riddle  vexed  him  till  his  vacant  stare 

Fell  on  a  heap  of  earth  beside  a  pit. 

What  did  that  mean  ?     He  wormed  his  way  to  it, 

The  newly  wakened  wonder  dulling  pain. 

No  paw  of  beast  had  scooped  it  —  that  was  plain. 

'Twas  squared;    indeed,  'twas  like  a  grave,  he 

thought. 

A  grave  —  a  grave  —  the  mental  echo  wrought 
Sick  fancies  !     Who  had  risen  from  the  dead  ? 
Who,  lying  there,  had  heard  above  his  head 
The  ghostly  talkers  deaf  unto  his  shout  ? 

Now  searching  all  the  region  round  about, 
As  though  the  answer  were  a  lurking  thing, 
He  saw  along  the  margin  of  the  spring 
An  ash-heap  and  the  litter  of  a  camp. 
Suspicion,  like  a  little  smoky  lamp 


30  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

That  daubs  the  murk  but  cannot  fathom  it, 
Flung  blear  grotesques  before  his  groping  wit. 
Had    Rees    been   there  ?    And   he    alive  ?     Who 

then  ? 

And  were  he  dead,  it  might  be  Henry's  men ! 
How  many  suns  had  risen  while  he  slept  ? 
The  smoky  glow  flared  wildly,  and  he  crept, 
The  dragged  limb  throbbing,  till  at  length  he 

found 

The  trail  of  many  horses  westward  bound ; 
And  in  one  breath  the  groping  light  became 
A  gloom-devouring  ecstasy  of  flame, 
A  dazing  conflagration  of  belief! 

Plunged  deeper  than  the  seats  of  hate  and  grief, 
He  gazed  about  for  aught  that  might  deny 
Such  baseness  :  saw  the  non-committal  sky, 
The  prairie  apathetic  in  a  shroud, 
The  bland  complacence  of  a  vagrant  cloud  — 
World-wide  connivance !     Smilingly  the  sun 
Approved  a  land  wherein  such  deeds  were  done; 
And  careless  breezes,  like  a  troop  of  youth, 
Unawed  before  the  presence  of  such  truth, 
Went  scampering  amid  the  tousled  brush. 
Then  bye  and  bye  came  on  him  with  a  rush 
His  weakness  and  the  consciousness  of  pain, 
While,  with  the  chill  insistence  of  a  rain 


THE  AWAKENING  31 

That  pelts  the  sodden  wreck  of  Summer's  end, 
His  manifest  betrayal  by  a  friend 
Beat  in  upon  him.     Jamie  had  been  there; 
And  Jamie  —  Jamie  —  Jamie  did  not  care ! 

What  no  man  yet  had  witnessed,  the  wide  sky 
Looked  down  and  saw ;   a  light  wind  idling  by 
Heard  what  no  ear  of  mortal  yet  had  heard : 
For  he  —  whose  name  was  like  a  magic  word 
To  conjure  the  remote  heroic  mood 
Of  valiant  deed  and  splendid  fortitude, 
Wherever  two  that  shared  a  fire  might  be,  — 
Gave  way  to  grief  and  wept  unmanfully. 
Yet  not  as  they  for  whom  tears  fall  like  dew 
To  green  a  frosted  heart  again,  wept  Hugh. 
So  thewed  to  strive,  so  engined  to  prevail 
And  make  harsh  fate  the  zany  of  a  tale, 
His  own  might  shook  and  tore  him. 

For  a  span 

He  lay,  a  gray  old  ruin  of  a  man 
With  all  his  years  upon  him  like  a  snow. 
And  then  at  length,  as  from  the  long  ago, 
Remote  beyond  the  other  side  of  wrong, 
The  old  love  came  like  some  remembered  song 
Whereof  the  strain  is  sweet,  the  burden  sad. 
A  retrospective  vision  of  the  lad 
Grew  up  in  him,  as  in  a  foggy  night 


32  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

The  witchery  of  semilunar  light 

Mysteriously  quickens  all  the  air. 

Some  memory  of  wind-blown  golden  hair, 

The  boyish  laugh,  the  merry  eyes  of  blue, 

Wrought  marvelously  in  the  heart  of  Hugh, 

As  under  snow  the  daemon  of  the  Spring. 

And  momently  it  seemed  a  little  thing 

To  suffer ;   nor  might  treachery  recall 

The  miracle  of  being  loved  at  all, 

The  privilege  of  loving  to  the  end. 

And  thereupon  a  longing  for  his  friend 

Made  life  once  more  a  struggle  for  a  prize  — 

To  look  again  upon  the  merry  eyes, 

To  see  again  the  wind-blown  golden  hair. 

Aye,  one  should  lavish  very  tender  care 

Upon  the  vessel  of  a  hope  so  great, 

Lest  it  be  shattered,  and  the  precious  freight, 

As  water  on  the  arid  waste,  poured  out. 

Yet,  though  he  longed  to  live,  a  subtle  doubt 

Still  turned  on  him  the  weapon  of  his  pain : 

Now,  as  before,  collusive  sky  and  plain 

Outstared  his  purpose  for  a  puny  thing. 

Praying  to  live,  he  crawled  back  to  the  spring, 
With  something  in  his  heart  like  gratitude 
That  by  good  luck  his  gun  might  furnish  food, 
His  blanket,  shelter,  and  his  flint,  a  fire. 


THE  AWAKENING  33 

For,  after  all,  what  thing  do  men  desire 
To  be  or  have,  but  these  condition  it  ? 
These  with  a  purpose  and  a  little  wit, 
And  howsoever  smitten,  one  might  rise, 
Push  back  the  curtain  of  the  curving  skies, 
And  come  upon  the  living  dream  at  last. 

Exhausted,  by  the  spring  he  lay  and  cast 
Dull  eyes  about  him.     What  did  it  portend  ? 
Naught  but  the  footprints  of  a  fickle  friend, 
A  yawning  grave  and  ashes  met  his  eyes ! 
Scarce  feeling  yet  the  shock  of  a  surprise, 
He  searched  about  him  for  his  flint  and  knife ; 
Knew  vaguely  that  his  seeking  was  for  life, 
And  that  the  place  was  empty  where  he  sought. 
No  food,  no  fire,  no  shelter !     Dully  wrought 
The  bleak  negation  in  him,  slowly  crept 
To  where,  despite  the  pain,  his  love  had  kept 
A  shrine  for  Jamie  undefiled  of  doubt. 
Then  suddenly  conviction,  like  a  shout, 
Aroused  him.     Jamie  —  Jamie  was  a  thief! 
The  very  difficulty  of  belief 
Was  fuel  for  the  simmering  of  rage, 
That  grew  and  grew,  the  more  he  strove  to  gage 
The  underlying  motive  of  the  deed. 
Untempered  youth  might  fail  a  friend  in  need ; 
But  here  had  wrought  some  devil  of  the  will, 


34  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Some  heartless  thing,  too  cowardly  to  kill, 
That  left  to  Nature  what  it  dared  not  do ! 

So  bellowsed,  all  the  kindled  soul  of  Hugh 
Became  a  still  white  hell  of  brooding  ire, 
And  through  his  veins  regenerating  fire 
Ran,  driving  out  the  lethargy  of  pain. 
Now  once  again  he  scanned  the  yellow  plain, 
Conspirant  with  the  overbending  skies ; 
And  lo,  the  one  was  blue  as  Jamie's  eyes, 
The  other  of  the  color  of  his  hair  — 
Twin  hues  of  falseness  merging  to  a  stare, 
As  though  such  guilt,  thus  visibly  immense, 
Regarded  its  effect  with  insolence  I 

Alas  for  those  who  fondly  place  above 
The  act  of  loving,  what  they  chance  to  love; 
Who  prize  the  goal  more  dearly  than  the  way ! 
For  time  shall  plunder  them,  and  change  betray, 
And  life  shall  find  them  vulnerable  still. 

A  bitter-sweet  narcotic  to  the  will, 
Hugh's  love  increased  the  peril  of  his  plight ; 
But  anger  broke  the  slumber  of  his  might, 
Quickened  the  heart  and  warmed  the  blood  that 

ran 
Defiance  for  the  treachery  of  Man, 


THE  AWAKENING  35 

Defiance  for  the  meaning  of  his  pain, 
Defiance  for  the  distance  of  the  plain 
That  seemed  to  gloat,  'You  can  not  master  me/ 
And  for  one  burning  moment  he  felt  free 
To  rise  and  conquer  in  a  wind  of  rage. 
But  as  a  tiger,  conscious  of  the  cage, 
A-smoulder  with  a  purpose,  broods  and  waits, 
So  with  the  sullen  patience  that  is  hate's 
Hugh  taught  his  wrath  to  bide  expedience. 

Now  cognizant  of  every  quickened  sense, 
Thirst  came  upon  him.     Leaning  to  the  spring, 
He  stared  with  fascination  on  a  thing 
That  rose  from  giddy  deeps  to  share  the  draught — 
A  face,  it  was,  so  tortured  that  it  laughed, 
A  ghastly  mask  that  Murder  well  might  wear; 
And  while  as  one  they  drank  together  there, 
It  was  as  though  the  deed  he  meant  to  do 
Took  shape  and  came  to  kiss  the  lips  of  Hugh, 
Lest  that  revenge  might  falter.     Hunger  woke ; 
And  from  the  bush  with  leafage  gray  as  smoke, 
Wherein  like  flame  the  bullberries  glinted  red 
(Scarce  sweeter  than  the  heart  of  him  they  fed), 
Hugh  feasted. 

And  the  hours  of  waiting  crept, 
A-gloom,  a-glow ;   and  though  he  waked  or  slept, 
The  pondered  purpose  or  a  dream  that  wrought, 


36  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

By  night,  the  murder  of  his  waking  thought, 
Sustained  him  till  he  felt  his  strength  returned. 
And  then  at  length  the  longed-for  morning  burned 
And  beckoned  down  the  vast  way  he  should  crawl — 
That  waste  to  be  surmounted  as  a  wall, 
Sky-rims  and  yet  more  sky-rims  steep  to  climb  — 
That  simulacrum  of  enduring  Time  — 
The  hundred  empty  miles  'twixt  him  and  where 
The  stark  Missouri  ran ! 

Yet  why  not  dare  ? 

Despite  the  useless  leg,  he  could  not  die 
One  hairsbreadth  farther  from  the  earth  and  sky, 
Or  more  remote  from  kindness. 


Ill 

THE  CRAWL 

STRAIGHT  away 

Beneath  the  flare  of  dawn,  the  Ree  land  lay, 
And  through  it  ran  the  short  trail  to  the  goal. 
Thereon  a  grim  turnpikeman  waited  toll : 
But  'twas  so  doomed  that  southering  geese  should 

flee 

Nine  times,  ere  yet  the  vengeance  of  the  Ree 
Should  make  their  foe  the  haunter  of  a  tale. 

Midway  to  safety  on  the  northern  trail 
The  scoriae  region  of  a  hell  burned  black 
Forbade  the  crawler.     And  for  all  his  lack, 
Hugh  had  no  heart  to  journey  with  the  suns : 
No  suppliant  unto  those  faithless  ones 
Should  bid  for  pity  at  the  Big  Horn's  mouth. 

The  greater  odds  for  safety  in  the  South 
Allured  him ;   so  he  felt  the  midday  sun 
Blaze  down  the  coulee  of  a  little  run 
37 


38  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

That  dwindled  upward  to  the  watershed 
Whereon  the  feeders  of  the  Moreau   head  — 
Scarce  more  than  deep-carved  runes  of   vernal 

rain. 

The  trailing  leg  was  like  a  galling  chain, 
And  bound  him  to  a  doubt  that  would  not  pass. 
Defiant  clumps  of  thirst-embittered  grass 
That  bit  parched  earth  with  bared  and  fang-like 

roots ; 

Dwarf  thickets,  jealous  for  their  stunted  fruits, 
Harsh-tempered  by  their  disinheritance  — 
These  symbolized  the  enmity  of  Chance 
For  him  who,  with  his  fate  unreconciled, 
Equipped  for  travel  as  a  weanling  child, 
Essayed  the  journey  of  a  mighty  man. 

Like  agitated  oil  the  heat-waves  ran 

And  made  the  scabrous  gulch  appear  to  shake 

As  some  reflected  landscape  in  a  lake 

Where  laggard  breezes  move.     A  taunting  reek 

Rose  from  the  grudging  seepage  of  the  creek, 

Whereof  Hugh  drank  and  drank,  and  still  would 

drink. 

And  where  the  mottled  shadow  dripped  as  ink 
From  scanty  thickets  on  the  yellow  glare, 
The  crawler  faltered  with  no  heart  to  dare 
Again  the  torture  of  that  toil,  until 


THE  CRAWL  39 

The  master-thought  of  vengeance  'woke  the  will 

To  goad  him  forth.     And  when  the  sun  quiesced 

Amid  ironic  heavens  in  the  West  — 

The  region  of  false  friends  —  Hugh  gained  a  rise 

Whence  to  the  fading  cincture  of  the  skies 

A  purpling  panorama  swept  away. 

Scarce  farther  than  a  shout  might  carry,  lay 

The  place  of  his  betrayal.     He  could  see 

The  yellow  blotch  of  earth  where  treachery 

Had  digged  his  grave.     O  futile  wrath  and  toil ! 

Tucked  in  beneath  yon  coverlet  of  soil, 

Turned  back  for  him,  how  soundly  had  he  slept ! 

Fool,  fool !  to  struggle  when  he  might  have  crept 

So  short  a  space,  yet  farther  than  the  flight 

Of  swiftest  dreaming  through  the  longest  night, 

Into  the  quiet  house  of  no  false  friend. 

Alas  for  those  who  seek  a  journey's  end  — 
They  have  it  ever  with  them  like  a  ghost : 
Nor  shall  they  find,  who  deem  they  seek  it  most, 
But  crave  the  end  of  human  ends  —  as  Hugh. 

Now  swoopingly  the  world  of  dream  broke  through 
The  figured  wall  of  sense.     It  seemed  he  ran 
As  wind  above  the  creeping  ways  of  man, 
And  came  upon  the  place  of  his  desire, 
Where  burned,  far-luring  as  a  beacon-fire, 


40  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

The  face  of  Jamie.  But  the  vengeful  stroke 
Bit  air.  The  darkness  lifted  like  a  smoke  — 
And  it  was  early  morning. 

Gazing  far, 

From  where  the  West  yet  kept  a  pallid  star 
To  thinner  sky  where  dawn  was  wearing  through, 
Hugh  shrank  with  dread,  reluctant  to  renew 
The  war  with  that  serene  antagonist. 
More  fearsome  than  a  smashing  iron  fist 
Seemed  that  vast  negativity  of  might ; 
Until  the  frustrate  vision  of  the  night 
Came  moonwise  on  the  gloom  of  his  despair. 
And  lo,  the  foe  was  naught  but  yielding  air, 
A  vacancy  to  fill  with  his  intent ! 
So  from  his  spacious  bed  he  'rose  and  went 
Three-footed ;   and  the  vision  goaded  him. 

All  morning  southward  to  the  bare  sky  rim 
The  rugged  coulee  zigzagged,  mounting  slow; 
And  ever  as  it  'rose,  the  lean  creek's  flow 
Dwindled  and  dwindled  steadily,  until 
At  last  a  scooped-out  basin  would  not  fill ; 
And  thenceforth  'twas  a  way  of  mocking  dust. 
But,  in  that  Hugh  still  kept  the  driving  lust 
For  vengeance,  this  new  circumstance  of  fate 
Served  but  to  brew  more  venom  for  his  hate, 
And  nerved  him  to  avail  the  most  with  least. 


THE  CRAWL  41 

Ere  noon  the  crawler  chanced  upon  a  feast 
Of  bread-root  sunning  in  a  favored  draw. 
A  sentry  gopher  from  his  stronghold  saw 
Some  three-legged  beast,  bear-like,  yet  not  a  bear, 
With  quite  misguided  fury  digging  where 
No  hapless  brother  gopher  might  be  found. 
And  while,  with  striped  nose  above  his  mound, 
The  sentinel  chirped  shrilly  to  his  clan 
Scare-tales  of  that  anomaly,  the  man 
Devoured  the  chance-flung  manna  of  the  plains 
That  some  vague  reminiscence  of  old  rains 
Kept  succulent,  despite  the  burning  drouth. 

So  with  new  vigor  Hugh  assailed  the  South, 
His  pockets  laden  with  the  precious  roots 
Against  that  coming  traverse,  where  no  fruits 
Of  herb  or  vine  or  shrub  might  brave  the  land 
Spread  rooflike  'twixt  the  Moreau  and  the  Grand. 

The  coulee  deepened ;  yellow  walls  flung  high, 
Sheer  to  the  ragged  strip  of  blinding  sky, 
Dazzled  and  sweltered  in  the  glare  of  day. 
Capricious  draughts  that  woke  and  died  away 
Into  the  heavy  drowse,  were  breatht  as  flame. 
And  midway  down  the  afternoon,  Hugh  came 
Upon  a  little  patch  of  spongy  ground. 
His  thirst  became  a  rage.     He  gazed  around, 


42  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Seeking  a  spring ;   but  all  about  was  dry 

As  strewn  bones  bleaching  to  a  desert  sky ; 

Nor   did    a    clawed    hole,    bought   with    needed 

strength, 

Return  a  grateful  ooze.     And  when  at  length 
Hugh  sucked  the  mud,  he  spat  it  in  disgust. 
It  had  the  acrid  tang  of  broken  trust, 
The  sweetish,  tepid  taste  of  feigning  love ! 

Still  hopeful  of  a  spring  somewhere  above, 
He  crawled  the  faster  for  his  taunted  thirst. 
More  damp  spots,  no  less  grudging  than  the  first, 
Occurred  with  growing  frequence  on  the  way, 
Until  amid  the  purple  wane  of  day 
The  crawler  came  upon  a  little  pool ! 
Clear  as  a  friend's  heart,  'twas,  and  seeming  cool  — 
A  crystal  bowl  whence  skyey  deeps  looked  up. 
So  might  a  god  set  down  his  drinking  cup 
Charged  with  a  distillation  of  haut  skies. 
As  famished  horses,  thrusting  to  the  eyes 
Parched  muzzles,  take  a  long-sought  water-hole, 
Hugh  plunged  his  head  into  the  brimming  bowl 
As  though  to  share  the  joy  with  every  sense. 
And  lo,  the  tang  of  that  wide  insolence 
Of  sky  and  plain  was  acrid  in  the  draught ! 
How  ripplingly  the  lying  water  laughed  ! 
How  like  fine  sentiment  the  mirrored  sky 


THE  CRAWL  43 

Won  credence  for  a  sink  of  alkali ! 
So  with  false  friends.     And  yet,  as  may  accrue 
From  specious  love  some  profit  of  the  true, 
One  gift  of  kindness  had  the  tainted  sink. 
Stripped  of  his  clothes,  Hugh  let  his  body  drink 
At   every  thirsting   pore.     Through   trunk   and 

limb 

The  elemental  blessing  solaced  him ; 
Nor  did  he  rise  till,  vague  with  stellar  light, 
The  lone  gulch,  buttressing  an  arch  of  night, 
Was  like  a  temple  to  the  Holy  Ghost. 
As  priests  in  slow  procession  with  the  Host, 
A  gusty  breeze  intoned  —  now  low,  now  loud, 
And  now,  as  to  the  murmur  of  a  crowd, 
Yielding  the  dim-torched  wonder  of  the  nave. 
Aloft  along  the  dusky  architrave 
The  wander-tale  of  drifting  stars  evolved ; 
And  Hugh  lay  gazing  till  the  whole  resolved 
Into  a  haze. 

It  seemed  that  Little  Jim 
Had  come  to  share  a  merry  fire  with  him, 
And  there  had  been  no  trouble  'twixt  the  two. 
And  Jamie  listened  eagerly  while  Hugh 
Essayed  a  tangled  tale  of  bears  and  men, 
Bread-root  and  stars.     But  ever  now  and  then 
The  shifting  smoke-cloud  dimmed  the  golden  hair, 
The  leal  blue  eyes ;  until  with  sudden  flare 


44  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

The  flame  effaced  them  utterly  —  and  lo, 
The  gulch  bank-full  with  morning ! 

Loath  to  go, 

Hugh  lay  beside  the  pool  and  pondered  fate. 
He  saw  his  age-long  pilgrimage  of  hate 
Stretch  out  —  a  fool's  trail ;    and  it  made  him 

cringe ; 

For  still  amid  the  nightly  vision's  fringe 
His  dull  wit  strayed,  companioned  with  regret. 
But  when  the  sun,  a  tilted  cauldron  set 
Upon  the  gulch  rim,  poured  a  blaze  of  day, 
He  rose  and  bathed  again,  and  went  his  way, 
Sustaining  wrath  returning  with  the  toil. 

At  noon  the  guich  walls,  hewn  in  lighter  soil, 
Fell  back ;   and  coulees  dense  with  shrub  and  vine 
Climbed  zigzag  to  the  sharp  horizon  line, 
Whence  one  might  choose  the  pilotage  of  crows. 
He  labored  upward  through  the  noonday  doze. 
Of  breathless  shade,  where  plums  were  turning 

red 

In  tangled  bowers,  and  grapevines  overhead 
Purpled  with  fruit  to  taunt  the  crawler's  thirst. 
With  little  effort  Hugh  attained  the  first; 
The  latter  bargained  sharply  ere  they  sold 
Their  luscious  clusters  for  the  hoarded  gold 
Of  strength  that  had  so  very  much  to  buy. 


THE  CRAWL  45 

Now,  having  feasted,  it  was  sweet  to  lie 
Beneath  a  sun-proof  canopy ;  and  sleep 
Came  swiftly. 

Hugh  awakened  to  some  deep 
Star-snuffing  well  of  night.     Awhile  he  lay 
And  wondered  what  had  happened  to  the  day 
And  where  he  was  and  what  were  best  to  do. 
But  when,  fog-like,  the  drowse  dispersed,  he  knew 
How  from  the  rim  above  the  plain  stretched  far 
To  where  the  evening  and  the  morning  are, 
And  that  'twere  better  he  should  crawl  by  night, 
Sleep   out   the   glare.     With   groping   hands   for 

sight, 

Skyward  along  the  broken  steep  he  crawled, 
And  saw  at  length,  immense  and  purple-walled  — 
Or  sensed  —  the  dusky  mystery  of  plain. 
Gazing  aloft,  he  found  the  capsized  Wain 
In  mid-plunge  down  the  polar  steep.     Thereto 
He  set  his  back;   and  far  ahead  there  grew, 
As  some  pale  blossom  from  a  darkling  root, 
The  star-blanched  summit  of  a  lonely  butte, 
And  thitherward  he  dragged  his  heavy  limb. 

It  seemed  naught  moved.     Time  hovered  over 

him, 

An  instant  of  incipient  endeavor. 
'Twas  ever  thus,  and  should  be  thus  forever  — 


46  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

This  groping  for  the  same  armful  of  space, 
An  insubstantial  essence  of  one  place, 
Extentless  on  a  weird  frontier  of  sleep. 
Sheer  deep  upon  unfathomable  deep 
The  flood  of  dusk  bore  down  without  a  sound, 
As  ocean  on  the  spirits  of  the  drowned 
Awakened  headlong  leagues  beneath  the  light. 

So  lapsed  the  drowsy  aeon  of  the  night  — 
A  strangely  tensile  moment  in  a  trance. 
And  then,  as  quickened  to  somnambulance, 
The  heavens,  imperceptibly  in  motion, 
Were  altered  as  the  upward  deeps  of  ocean 
Diluted  with  a  seepage  of  the  moon. 
The  butte-top,  late  a  gossamer  balloon 
In  mid-air  tethered  hovering,  grew  down 
And  rooted  in  a  blear  expanse  of  brown, 
That,  lifting  slowly  with  the  ebb  of  night, 
Took  on  the  harsh  solidity  of  light  — 
And  day  was  on  the  prairie  like  a  flame. 

Scarce  had  he  munched  the  hoarded  roots,  when 

came 

A  vertigo  of  slumber.     Snatchy  dreams 
Of  sick  pools,  inaccessible  cool  streams, 
Lured  on  through  giddy  vacancies  of  heat 
In  swooping  flights ;  now  hills  of  roasting  meat 


THE  CRAWL  47 

Made  savory  the  oven  of  the  world, 
Yet  kept  remote  peripheries  and  whirled 
About  a  burning  center  that  was  Hugh. 
Then  all  were  gone,  save  one,  and  it  turned  blue 
And  was  a  heap  of  cool  and  luscious  fruit, 
Until  at  length  he  knew  it  for  the  butte 
Now  mantled  with  a  weaving  of  the  gloam. 

It  was  the  hour  when  cattle  straggle  home. 
Across  the  clearing  in  a  hush  of  sleep 
They  saunter,  lowing ;  loiter  belly-deep 
Amid  the  lush  grass  by  the  meadow  stream. 
How  like  the  sound  of  water  in  a  dream 
The  intermittent  tinkle  of  yon  bell. 
A  windlass  creaks  contentment  from  a  well, 
And  cool  deeps  gurgle  as  the  bucket  sinks. 
Now  blowing  at  the  trough  the  plow-team  drinks ; 
The  shaken  harness  rattles.     Sleepy  quails 
Call  far.     The  warm  milk  hisses  in  the  pails 
There  in  the  dusky  barn-lot.     Crickets  cry. 
The  meadow  twinkles  with  the  glowing  fly. 
One  hears  the  horses  munching  at  their  oats. 
The  green  grows  black.     A  veil  of  slumber  floats 
Across  the  haunts  of  home-enamored  men. 

Some  freak  of  memory  brought  back  again 

The  boyhood  world  of  sight  and  scent  and  sound  : 

It  perished,  and  the  prairie  ringed  him  round, 


48  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Blank  as  the  face  of  fate.     In  listless  mood 

Hugh  set  his  face  against  the  solitude 

And  met  the  night.     The  new  moon,  low  and 

far, 

A  frail  cup  tilted,  nor  the  high-swung  star, 
It  seemed,  might  glint  on  any  stream  or  spring 
Or  touch  with  silver  any  toothsome  thing. 
The  kiote  voiced  the  universal  lack. 
As  from  a  nether  fire,  the  plain  gave  back 
The  swelter  of  the  noon-glare  to  the  gloom. 
In  the  hot  hush  Hugh  heard  his  temples  boom. 
Thirst  tortured.     Motion  was  a  languid  pain. 
Why  seek  some  further  nowhere  on  the  plain  ? 
Here  might  the  kiotes  feast  as  well  as  there. 
So  spoke  some  loose-lipped  spirit  of  despair; 
And  still  Hugh  moved,  volitionless  —  a  weight 
Submissive  to  that  now  unconscious  hate, 
As  darkling  water  to  the  hidden  moon. 

Now  when  the  night  wore  on  in  middle  swoon, 
The  crawler,  roused  from  stupor,  was  aware 
Of  some  strange  alteration  in  the  air. 
To  breathe  became  an  act  of  conscious  will. 
The  starry  waste  was  ominously  still. 
The  far-off  kiote's  yelp  came  sharp  and  clear 
As  through  a  tunnel  in  the  atmosphere  — 
A  ponderable,  resonating  mass. 


THE  CRAWL  49 

The  limp  leg  dragging  on  the  sun-dried  grass 
Produced  a  sound  unnaturally  loud. 

Crouched,  panting,  Hugh  looked  up  but  saw  no 

cloud. 

An  oily  film  seemed  spread  upon  the  sky 
Now  dully  staring  as  the  open  eye 
Of  one  in  fever.     Gasping,  choked  with  thirst, 
A  childish  rage  assailed  Hugh,  and  he  cursed : 
'Twas  like  a  broken  spirit's  outcry,  tossed 
Upon  hell's  burlesque  sabbath  for  the  lost, 
And  briefly  space  seemed  crowded  with  the  voice. 

To   wait    and    die,   to    move    and    die  —  what 

choice  ? 
Hugh  chose  not,  yet  he  crawled;    though  more 

and  more 

He  felt  the  futile  strife  was  nearly  o'er. 
And  as  he  went,  a  muffled  rumbling  grew, 
More  felt  than  heard ;   for  long  it  puzzled  Hugh. 
Somehow  'twas  coextensive  with  his  thirst, 
Yet  boundless ;  swollen  blood-veins  ere  they  burst 
Might  give  such  warning,  so  he  thought.     And 

still 

The  drone  seemed  heaping  up  a  phonic  hill 
That  towered  in  a  listening  profound. 
Then  suddenly  a  mountain  peak  of  sound 


50  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Came  toppling  to  a  heaven-jolting  fall ! 
The  prairie  shuddered,  and  a  raucous  drawl 
Ran  far  and  perished  in  the  outer  deep. 

As  one  too  roughly  shaken  out  of  sleep, 
Hugh  stared  bewildered.     Still  the  face  of  night 
Remained  the  same,  save  where  upon  his  right 
The  moon  had  vanished  'neath  the  prairie  rim. 
Then  suddenly  the  meaning  came  to  him. 
He  turned  and  saw  athwart  the  northwest  sky, 
Like  some  black  eyelid  shutting  on  an  eye, 
A  coming  night  to  which  the  night  was  day ! 
Star-hungry,  ranged  in  regular  array, 
The  lifting  mass  assailed  the  Dragon's  lair, 
Submerged  the  region  of  the  hounded  Bear, 
Out-topped  the  tall  Ox-Driver  and  the  Pole. 
And  all  the  while  there  came  a  low-toned  roll, 
Less  sound  in  air  than  tremor  in  the  earth, 
From  where,  like  flame  upon  a  windy  hearth, 
Deep  in  the  further  murk  sheet-lightning  flared. 
And  still  the  southern  arc  of  heaven  stared, 
A  half-shut  eye,  near  blind  with  fever  rheum ; 
And  still  the  plain  lay  tranquil  as  a  tomb 
Wherein  the  dead  reck  not  a  menaced  world. 

What  turmoil  now  ?     Lo,  ragged  columns  hurled 
Pell-mell  up  stellar  slopes !    Swift  blue  fires  leap 


THE  CRAWL  51 

Above  the  wild  assailants  of  the  steep ! 

Along  the  solid  rear  a  dull  boom  runs ! 

So  light  horse  squadrons  charge  beneath  the  guns. 

Now  once  again  the  night  is  deathly  still. 

What  ghastly  peace  upon  the  zenith  hill, 

No  longer  starry  ?    Not  a  sound  is  heard. 

So  poised  the  hush,  it  seems  a  whispered  word 

Might  loose  all  noises  in  an  avalanche. 

Only  the  black  mass  moves,  and  far  glooms  blanch 

With  fitful  flashes.     The  capricious  flare 

Reveals  the  butte-top  tall  and  lonely  there 

Like  some  gray  prophet  contemplating  doom. 

But  hark !    What  spirits  whisper  in  the  gloom  ? 

What  sibilation  of  conspiracies 

Ruffles  the  hush  —  or  murmuring  of  trees, 

Ghosts  of  the  ancient  forest  —  or  old  rain, 

In  some  hallucination  of  the  plain, 

A  frustrate  phantom  mourning  ?    All  around, 

That  e'er  evolving,  ne'er  resolving  sound 

Gropes  in  the  stifling  hollow  of  the  night. 

Then  —  once  —  twice  —  thrice  —  a      blade      of 

blinding  light 

Ripped  up  the  heavens,  and  the  deluge  came  — 
A  burst  of  wind  and  water,  noise  and  flame 
That  hurled  the  watcher  flat  upon  the  ground. 


52  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

A    moment    past    Hugh    famished ;  Ynow,    half 

drowned, 
He  gasped  for  breath  amid  the  hurtling  drench. 

So  might  a  testy  god,  long  sought  to  quench 
A  puny  thirst,  pour  wassail,  hurling  after 
The  crashing  bowl  with  wild  sardonic  laughter 
To  see  man  wrestle  with  his  answered  prayer ! 

Prone  to  the  roaring  flaw  and  ceaseless  flare, 
The  man  drank  deeply  with  the  drinking  grass; 
Until  it  seemed  the  storm  would  never  pass 
But  ravin  down  the  painted  murk  for  aye. 
When  had  what  dreamer  seen  a  glaring  sky 
And  leagues  of  prairie  pantingly  aquiver  ? 
Flame,  flood,  wind,  noise  and  darkness  were  a 

river 
Tearing  a  cosmic  channel  to  no  sea. 

The  tortured  night  wore  on ;  then  suddenly 
Peace  fell.     Remotely  the  retreating  Wrath 
Trailed  dull,  reluctant  thunders  in  its  path, 
And  up  along  a  broken  stair  of  cloud 
The    Dawn    came    creeping    whitely.     Like    a 

shroud 

Gray  vapors  clung  along  the  sodden  plain. 
Up  rose  the  sun  to  wipe  the  final  stain 


THE  CRAWL  53 

Of  fury  from  the  sky  and  drink  the  mist. 
Against  a  flawless  arch  of  amethyst 
The  butte  soared,  like  a  soul  serene  and  white 
Because  of  the  katharsis  of  the  night. 

All  day  Hugh  fought  with  sleep  and  struggled  on 
Southeastward ;   for  the  heavy  heat  was  gone 
Despite  the  naked  sun.     The  blank  Northwest 
Breathed  coolly;   and  the  crawler  thought  it  best 
To  move  while  yet  each  little  break  and  hollow 
And  shallow  basin  of  the  bison-wallow 
Begrudged  the  earth  and  air  its  dwindling  store. 
But  now  that  thirst  was  conquered,  more  and 

more 

He  felt  the  gnaw  of  hunger  like  a  rage. 
And  once,  from  dozing  in  a  clump  of  sage, 
A  lone  jackrabbit  bounded.     As  a  flame 
Hope  flared  in  Hugh,  until  the  memory  came 
Of  him  who  robbed  a  sleeping  friend  and  fled. 
Then  hate  and  hunger  merged ;   the  man  saw  red, 
And  momently  the  hare  and  Little  Jim 
Were  one  blurred  mark  for  murder  unto  him  — 
Elusive,  taunting,  sweet  to  clutch  and  tear. 
The  rabbit  paused  to  scan  the  crippled  bear 
That  ground  its  teeth   as  though   it   chewed   a 

root. 
But  when,  in  witless  rage,  Hugh  drew  his  boot 


54  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  hurled  it  with  a  curse,  the  hare  loped  off, 
Its  critic  ears  turned  back,  as  though  to  scoff 
At  silly  brutes  that  threw  their  legs  away. 

Night  like  a  shadow  on  enduring  day 

Swooped  by.     The  dream  of  crawling  and  the 

act 

Were  phases  of  one  everlasting  fact : 
Hugh  woke,  and  he  was  doing  what  he  dreamed. 
The  butte,  outstripped  at  eventide,  now  seemed 
Intent  to  follow.     Ever  now  and  then 
The  crawler  paused  to  calculate  again 
What  dear-bought  yawn  of  distance  dwarfed  the 

hill. 

Close  in  the  rear  it  soared,  a  Titan  still, 
Whose  hand-in-pocket  saunter  kept  the  pace. 

Distinct  along  the  southern  rim  of  space 
A  low  ridge  lay,  the  crest  of  the  divide. 
What  rest  and  plenty  on  the  other  side ! 
Through   what   lush   valleys    ran   what    crystal 

brooks ! 

And  there  in  virgin  meadows  wayside  nooks 
With  leaf  and  purple  cluster  dulled  the  light ! 

All  day  it  seemed  that  distant  Pisgah  Height 
Retreated,  and  the  tall  butte  dogged  the  rear. 


THE  CRAWL  55 

At  eve  a  striped  gopher  chirping  near 
Gave  Hugh  an  inspiration.     Now,  at  least, 
No  thieving  friend  should  rob  him  of  a  feast. 
His  great  idea  stirred  him  as  a  shout. 
Off  came  a  boot,  a  sock  was  ravelled  out. 
The  coarse  yarn,  fashioned  to  a  running  snare, 
He  placed  about  the  gopher's  hole  with  care, 
And  then  withdrew  to  hold  the  yarn  and  wait. 
The  nightbound  moments,  ponderous  with  fate, 
Crept  slowly  by.     The  battered  gray  face  leered 
In  expectation.     Down  the  grizzled  beard 
Ran  slaver  from  anticipating  jaws. 
Evolving  twilight  hovered  to  a  pause. 
The  light  wind  fell.     Again  and  yet  again 
The  man  devoured  his  fancied  prey :   and  then 
Within  the  noose  a  timid  snout  was  thrust. 
His  hand  unsteadied  with  the  hunger  lust, 
Hugh  jerked  the  yarn.     It  broke. 

Down  swooped  the  night, 
A  shadow  of  despair.     Bleak  height  on  height, 
It  seemed,  a  sheer  abyss  enclosed  him  round. 
Clutching  a  strand  of  yarn,  he  heard  the  sound 
Of  some  infernal  turmoil  under  him. 
Grimly  he  strove  to  reach  the  ragged  rim 
That  snared  a  star,  until  the  skyey  space 
Was  darkened  with  a  roof  of  Jamie's  face, 


56  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  then  the  yarn  was  broken,  and  he  fell. 
A-tumble  like  a  stricken  bat,  his  yell 
Woke  hordes  of  laughers  down  the  giddy  yawn 
Of  that  black  pit  —  and  suddenly  'twas  dawn. 

Dream-dawn,  dream-noon,  dream-twilight !    Yet, 

possest 
By  one  stern  dream  more  clamorous  than  the 

rest, 

Hugh  headed  for  a  gap  that  notched  the  hills, 
Wherethrough  a  luring  murmur  of  cool  rills, 
A  haunting  smell  of  verdure  seemed  to  creep. 
By  fits  the  wild  adventure  of  his  sleep 
Became  the  cause  of  all  his  waking  care, 
And  he  complained  unto  the  empty  air 
How  Jamie  broke  the  yarn. 

The  sun  and  breeze 

Had  drunk  all  shallow  basins  to  the  lees, 
But  now  and  then  some  gully,  choked  with  mud, 
Retained  a  turbid  relict  of  the  flood. 
Dream-dawn,    dream-noon,    dream-night!     And 

still  obsessed 

By  that  one  dream  more  clamorous  than  the  rest, 
Hugh  struggled  for  the  crest  of  the  divide. 
And  when  at  length  he  saw  the  other  side, 
'Twas  but  a  rumpled  waste  of  yellow  hills  ! 


THE  CRAWL  57 

The  deep-sunk,  wiser  self  had  known  the  rills 
And  nooks  to  be  the  facture  of  a  whim ; 
Yet  had  the  pleasant  lie  befriended  him, 
And  now  the  brutal  fact  had  come  to  stare. 

Succumbing  to  a  langorous  despair, 

He  mourned  his  fate  with  childish  uncontrol 

And  nursed  that  deadly  adder  of  the  soul, 

Self-pity.     Let  the  crows  swoop  down  and  feed, 

Aye,  batten  on  a  thing  that  died  of  need, 

A  poor  old  wretch  betrayed  of  God  and  Man ! 

So  peevishly  his  broken  musing  ran, 

Till,  glutted  with  the  luxury  of  woe, 

He  turned  to  see  the  butte,  that  he  might  know 

How  little  all  his  striving  could  avail 

Against  ill-luck.     And  lo,  a  finger-nail, 

At  arm-length  held,  could  blot  it  out  of  space! 

A  goading  purpose  and  a  creeping  pace 

Had  dwarfed  the  Titan  in  a  haze  of  blue ! 

And  suddenly  new  power  came  to  Hugh 

With  gazing  on  his  masterpiece  of  will. 

So  fare  the  wise  on  Pisgah. 

Down  the  hill, 

Unto  the  higher  vision  consecrate, 
Now  sallied  forth  the  new  triumvirate  — 
A  Weariness,  a  Hunger  and  a  Glory  — • 


58  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Against  tyrannic  Chance.     As  in  a  story 

Some  higher  Hugh  observed  the  baser  part. 

So  sits  the  artist  throned  above  his  art, 

Nor  recks  the  travail  so  the  end  be  fair. 

It  seemed  the  wrinkled  hills  pressed  in  to  stare, 

The  arch  of  heaven  was  an  eye  a-gaze. 

And  as  Hugh  went,  he  fashioned  many  a  phrase 

For  use  when,  by  some  friendly  ember-light, 

His  tale  of  things  endured  should  speed  the  night 

And  all  this  gloom  grow  golden  in  the  sharing. 

So  wrought  the  old  evangel  of  high  daring, 

The  duty  and  the  beauty  of  endeavor, 

The  privilege  of  going  on  forever, 

A  victor  in  the  moment. 

Ah,  but  when 

The  night  slipped  by  and  morning  came  again, 
The  sky  and  hill  were  only  sky  and  hill 
And  crawling  but  an  agony  of  will. 
So  once  again  the  old  triumvirate, 
A  buzzard  Hunger  and  a  viper  Hate 
Together  with  the  baser  part  of  Hugh, 
Went  visionless. 

That  day  the  wild  geese  flew, 
Vague  in  a  gray  profundity  of  sky ; 
And  on  into  the  night  their  muffled  cry 
Haunted  the  moonlight  like  a  far  farewell. 
It  made  Hugh  homesick,  though  he  could  not  tell 


THE  CRAWL  59 

For  what  he  yearned;    and  in  his  fitful  sleeping 
The  cry  became  the  sound  of  Jamie  weeping, 
Immeasurably  distant. 

Morning  broke, 

Blear,  chilly,  through  a  fog  that  drove  as  smoke 
Before  the  booming  Northwest.     Sweet  and  sad 
Came  creeping  back  old  visions  of  the  lad  — 
Some  trick  of  speech,  some  merry  little  lilt, 
The  brooding  blue  of  eyes  too  clear  for  guilt, 
The  wind-blown  golden  hair.     Hate  slept  that 

day, 

And  half  of  Hugh  was  half  a  life  away, 
A  wandering  spirit  wistful  of  the  past ; 
And  half  went  drifting  with  the  autumn  blast 
That  mourned  among  the  melancholy  hills ; 
For  something  of  the  lethargy  that  kills 
Came  creeping  close  upon  the  ebb  of  hate. 
Only  the  raw  wind,  like  the  lash  of  Fate, 
Could  have  availed  to  move  him  any  more. 
At  last  the  buzzard  beak  no  longer  tore 
His  vitals,  and  he  ceased  to  think  of  food. 
The  fighter  slumbered,  and  a  maudlin  mood 
Foretold  the  dissolution  of  the  man. 
He  sobbed,  and  down  his  beard  the  big  tears  ran. 
And  now  the  scene  is  changed ;   the  bleak  wind's 

cry 
Becomes  a  flight  of  bullets  snarling  by 


60  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

From  where  on  yonder  summit  skulk  the  Rees. 
Against  the  sky,  in  silhouette,  he  sees 
The  headstrong  Jamie  in  the  leaden  rain. 
And  now  serenely  beautiful  and  slain 
The  dear  lad  lies  within  a  gusty  tent. 

Thus  vexed  with  doleful  whims  the  crawler  went 

Adrift  before  the  wind,  nor  saw  the  trail; 

Till  close  on  night  he  knew  a  rugged  vale 

Had  closed  about  him ;   and  a  hush  was  there, 

Though  still  a  moaning  in  the  upper  air 

Told  how  the  gray-winged  gale  blew  out  the  day. 

Beneath  a  clump  of  brush  he  swooned  away 

Into  an  icy  void ;   and  waking  numb, 

It  seemed  the  still  white  dawn  of  death  had  come 

On  this,  some  cradle-valley  of  the  soul. 

He  saw  a  dim,  enchanted  hollow  roll 

Beneath  him,  and  the  brush  thereof  was  fleece ; 

And,  like  the  body  of  the  perfect  peace 

That  thralled  the  whole,  abode  the  break  of  day. 

It  seemed  no  wind  had  ever  come  that  way, 

Nor  sound  dwelt  there,  nor  echo  found  the  place. 

And  Hugh  lay  lapped  in  wonderment  a  space, 

Vexed  with  a  snarl  whereof  the  ends  were  lost, 

Till,  shivering,  he  wondered  if  a  frost 

Had  fallen  with  the  dying  of  the  blast. 

So,  vaguely  troubled,  listlessly  he  cast 


THE  CRAWL  6l 

A  gaze  about  him :  lo,  above  his  head 

The  gray-green  curtain  of  his  chilly  bed 

Was  broidered  thick  with  plums  !     Or  so  it  seemed, 

For  he  was  half  persuaded  that  he  dreamed ; 

And  with  a  steady  stare  he  strove  to  keep 

That  treasure  for  the  other  side  of  sleep. 

Returning  hunger  bade  him  rise;   in  vain 

He  struggled  with  a  fine-spun  mesh  of  pain 

That  trammelled  him,  until  a  yellow  stream 

Of  day  flowed  down  the  white  vale  of  a  dream 

And  left  it  disenchanted  in  the  glare. 

Then,    warmed    and    soothed,    Hugh    rose    and 

feasted  there, 
And  thought  once  more  of  reaching  the  Moreau. 

To  southward  with  a  painful  pace  and  slow 
He  went  stiff-jointed ;  and  a  gnawing  ache 
In  that  hip-wound  he  had  for  Jamie's  sake 
Oft  made  him  groan  —  nor  wrought  a  tender 

mood  : 

The  rankling  weapon  of  ingratitude 
Was  turned  again  with  every  puckering  twinge. 

Far  down  the  vale  a  narrow  winding  fringe 
Of  wilted  green  betokened  how  a  spring 
There  sent  a  little  rill  meandering ; 


62  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  Hugh  was  greatly  heartened,  for  he  knew 
What   fruits    and    herbs   might   flourish    in   the 

slough, 
And  thirst,  henceforth,  should  torture  not  again. 

So  day  on  day,  despite  the  crawler's  pain, 
All  in  the  windless,  golden  autumn  weather, 
These   two,    as   comrades,    struggled    south   to- 
gether — 

The  homeless  graybeard  and  the  homing  rill : 
And  one  was  sullen  with  the  lust  to  kill, 
And    one    went    crooning    of   the    moon-wooed 

vast; 

For  each  the  many-fathomed  peace  at  last, 
But  oh  the  boon  of  singing  on  the  way ! 
So  came  these  in  the  golden  fall  of  day 
Unto  a  sudden  turn  in  the  ravine, 
Wherefrom  Hugh  saw  a  flat  of  cluttered  green 
Beneath  the  further  bluffs  of  the  Moreau. 

With  sinking  heart  he  paused  and  gazed  below 
Upon  the  goal  of  so  much  toil  and  pain. 
Yon  green  had  seemed  a  paradise  to  gain 
The  while  he  thirsted  where  the  lonely  butte 
Looked  far  and  saw  no  toothsome  herb  or  fruit 
In  all  that  yellow  barren  dim  with  heat. 
But  now  the  wasting  body  cried  for  meat, 


THE  CRAWL  63 

And  sickness  was  upon  him.     Game  should  pass, 
Nor  deign  to  fear  the  mighty  hunter  Glass, 
But  curiously  sniffing,  pause  to  stare. 

Now  while  thus  musing,  Hugh  became  aware 
Of  some  low  murmur,  phasic  and  profound, 
Scarce  risen  o'er  the  border  line  of  sound. 
It  might  have  been  the  coursing  of  his  blood, 
Or  thunder  heard  remotely,  or  a  flood 
Flung  down  a  wooded  valley  far  away. 
Yet  that  had  been  no  weather-breeding  day; 
'Twould  frost  that  night;    amid  the  thirsty  land 
All  streams  ran  thin;    and  when  he  pressed  a 

hand 
On  either  ear,  the  world  seemed  very  still. 

The  deep- worn  channel  of  the  little  rill 
Here  fell  away  to  eastward,  rising,  rough 
With  old  rain-furrows,  to  a  lofty  bluff 
That  faced  the  river  with  a  yellow  wall. 
Thereto,  perplexed,  Hugh  set  about  to  crawl, 
Nor  reached  the  summit  till  the  sun  was  low. 
Far-spread,  shade-dimpled  in  the  level  glow, 
The  still  land  told  not  whence  the  murmur  grew; 
But  where  the  green  strip  melted  into  blue 
Far  down  the  winding  valley  of  the  stream, 
Hugh  saw  what  seemed  the  tempest  of  a  dream 


64  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

At  mimic  havoc  in  the  timber-glooms. 

As  from  the  sweeping  of  gigantic  brooms, 

A  dust  cloud  deepened  down  the  dwindling  river ; 

Upon  the  distant  tree-tops  ran  a  shiver 

And  huddled  thickets  writhed  as  in  a  gale. 

On  creeps  the  windless  tempest  up  the  vale, 
The  while  the  murmur  deepens  to  a  roar, 
As  with  the  wider  yawning  of  a  door. 
And  now  the  agitated  green  gloom  gapes 
To  belch  a  flood  of  countless  dusky  shapes 
That  mill  and  wrangle  in  a  turbid  flow  — 
Migrating  myriads  of  the  buffalo 
Bound  for  the  winter  pastures  of  the  Platte ! 

Exhausted,  faint  with  need  of  meat,  Hugh  sat 
And  watched  the  mounting  of  the  living  flood. 
Down  came  the  night,  and  like  a  blot  of  blood 
The  lopped  moon  weltered  in  the  dust-bleared 

East. 

Sleep  came  and  gave  a  Barmecidal  feast. 
About  a  merry  flame  were  simmering 
Sweet  haunches  of  the  calving  of  the  Spring, 
And  tender  tongues  that  never  tasted  snow, 
And  marrow  bones  that  yielded  to  a  blow 
Such  treasure !     Hugh  awoke  with  gnashing  teeth, 
And  heard  the  mooing  drone  of  cows  beneath, 


THE  CRAWL  65 

The  roll  of  hoofs,  the  challenge  of  the  bull. 
So  sounds  a  freshet  when  the  banks  are  full 
And  bursting  brush-jams  bellow  to  the  croon 
Of   water    through    green    leaves.     The    ragged 

moon 

Now  drenched  the  valley  in  an  eerie  rain : 
Below,  the  semblance  of  a  hurricane ; 
Above,  the  perfect  calm  of  brooding  frost, 
Through    which    the   wolves    in    doleful    tenson 

tossed 

From  hill  to  hill  the  ancient  hunger-song. 
In  broken  sleep  Hugh  rolled  the  chill  night  long, 
Half  conscious  of  the  flowing  flesh  below. 
And  now  he  trailed  a  bison  in  the  snow 
That  deepened  till  he  could  not  lift  his  feet. 
Again,  he  battled  for  a  chunk  of  meat 
With    some    gray    beast   that    fought    with    icy 

fang. 

And  when  he  woke,  the  wolves  no  longer  sang ; 
White  dawn   athwart  a  white  world  smote  the 

hill, 
And  thunder  rolled  along  the  valley  still. 

Morn,  wiping  up  the  frost  as  with  a  sponge, 
Day  on  the  steep  and  down  the  nightward  plunge, 
And  Twilight  saw  the  myriads  moving  on. 
Dust  to  the  westward  where  the  van  had  gone, 
F 


66  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  dust  and  muffled  thunder  in  the  east ! 
Hugh  starved  while  gazing  on  a  Titan  feast. 
The  tons  of  beef,  that  eddied  there  and  swirled, 
Had  stilled  the  crying  hungers  of  the  world, 
Yet  not  one  little  morsel  was  for  him. 

The  red  sun,  pausing  on  the  dusty  rim, 
Induced  a  panic  aspect  of  his  plight : 
The  herd  would  pass  and  vanish  in  the  night 
And  be  another  dream  to  cling  and  flout. 
Now  scanning  all  the  summit  round  about, 
Amid  the  rubble  of  the  ancient  drift 
He  saw  a  bowlder.     'Twas  too  big  to  lift, 
Yet  he  might  roll  it.     Painfully  and  slow 
He  worked  it  to  the  edge,  then  let  it  go 
And  breathlessly  expectant  watched  it  fall. 
It  hurtled  down  the  leaning  yellow  wall, 
And  bounding  from  a  brushy  ledge's  brow, 
It  barely  grazed  the  buttocks  of  a  cow 
And  made  a  moment's  eddy  where  it  struck. 

In  peevish  wrath  Hugh  cursed  his  evil  luck, 

And  seizing  rubble,  gave  his  fury  vent 

By  pelting  bison  till  his  strength  was  spent : 

So  might  a  child  assail  the  crowding  sea ! 

Then,  sick  at  heart  and  musing  bitterly, 

He  shambled  down  the  steep  way  to  the  creek, 

And  having  stayed  the  tearing  buzzard  beak 


THE  CRAWL  67 

With  breadroot  and  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
Slept  till  the  white  of  morning  o'er  the  hill 
Was  like  a  whisper  groping  in  a  hush. 
The  stream's  low  trill  seemed  loud.     The  tumbled 

brush 

And  rumpled  tree-tops  in  the  flat  below, 
Upon  a  fog  that  clung  like  spectral  snow, 
Lay  motionless ;  nor  any  sound  was  there. 
No  frost  had  fallen,  but  the  crystal  air 
Smacked  of  the  autumn,  and  a  heavy  dew 
Lay  hoar  upon  the  grass.     There  came  on  Hugh 
A  picture,  vivid  in  the  moment's  thrill, 
Of  martialed  corn-shocks  marching  up  a  hill 
And   spiked    fields   dotted   with   the    pumpkin's 

gold. 

It  vanished ;  and,  a-shiver  with  the  cold, 
He  brooded  on  the  mockeries  of  Chance, 
The  shrewd  malignity  of  Circumstance 
That  either  gave  too  little  or  too  much. 

Yet,  with  the  fragment  of  a  hope  for  crutch, 
His  spirit  rallied,  and  he  rose  to  go, 
Though  each  stiff  joint  resisted  as  a  foe 
And  that  old  hip-wound  battled  with  his  will. 
So  down  along  the  channel  of  the  rill 
Unto  the  vale  below  he  fought  his  way. 
The  frore  fog,  rifting  in  the  risen  day, 


68  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Revealed  the  havoc  of  the  living  flood  — 
The  river  shallows  beaten  into  mud, 
The  slender  saplings  shattered  in  the  crush, 
All  lower  leafage  stripped,  the  tousled  brush 
Despoiled  of  fruitage,  winter-thin,  aghast. 
And  where  the  avalanche  of  hoofs  had  passed 
It  seemed  nor  herb  nor  grass  had  ever  been. 
And  this  the  hard-won  paradise,  wherein 
A  food-devouring  plethora  of  food 
Had  come  to  make  a  starving  solitude! 

Yet  hope  and  courage  mounted  with  the  sun. 
Surely,  Hugh  thought,  some  ill-begotten  one 
Of  all  that  striving  mass  had  lost  the  strife 
And  perished  in  the  headlong  stream  of  life  — 
A  feast  to  fill  the  bellies  of  the  strong, 
That  still  the  weak  might  perish.     All  day  long 
He  struggled  down  the  stricken  vale,  nor  saw 
What  thing  he  sought.     But  when  the  twilight 

awe 

Was  creeping  in,  beyond  a  bend  arose 
A  din  as  though  the  kiotes  and  the  crows 
Fought  there  with  shrill  and  raucous  battle  cries. 

Small  need  had  Hugh  to  ponder  and  surmise 
What  guerdon  beak  and  fang  contended  for. 
Within  himself  the  oldest  cause  of  war 


THE  CRAWL  69 

Brought  forth  upon  the  instant  fang  and  beak. 
He  too  would  fight !     Nor  had  he  far  to  seek 
Amid  the  driftwood  strewn  about  the  sand 
For  weapons  suited  to  a  brawny  hand 
With   such   a   purpose.     Armed   with   club    and 

stone 

He  forged  ahead  into  the  battle  zone, 
And  from  a  screening  thicket  spied  his  foes. 

He  saw  a  bison  carcass  black  with  crows, 
And  over  it  a  welter  of  black  wings, 
And  round  about,  a  press  of  tawny  rings 
That,  like  a  muddy  current  churned  to  foam 
Upon  a  snag,  flashed  whitely  in  the  gloam 
With  naked  teeth;    while  close  about  the  prize 
Red  beaks  and  muzzles  bloody  to  the  eyes 
Betrayed  how  worth  a  struggle  was  the  feast. 

Then  came  on  Hugh  the  fury  of  the  beast  — 
To  eat  or  to  be  eaten  !     Better  so 
To  die  contending  with  a  living  foe, 
Than  fight  the  yielding  distance  and  the  lack. 
Masked  by  the  brush  he  opened  the  attack, 
And  ever  where  a  stone  or  club  fell  true, 
About  the  stricken  one  an  uproar  grew 
And  brute  tore  brute,  forgetful  of  the  prey, 
Until  the  whole  pack  tumbled  in  the  fray 


70  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

With  bleeding  flanks  and  lacerated  throats. 
Then,  as  the  leader  of  a  host  who  notes 
The  cannon-wrought  confusion  of  the  foe, 
Hugh  seized  the  moment  for  a  daring  blow. 

The  wolfs  a  coward,  who,  in  goodly  packs, 
May  counterfeit  the  courage  that  he  lacks 
And  with  a  craven's  fury  crush  the  bold. 
But  when  the  disunited  mass  that  rolled 
In  suicidal  strife,  became  aware 
How  some  great  beast  that  shambled  like  a  bear 
Bore  down  with  roaring  challenge,  fell  a  hush 
Upon  the  pack,  some  slinking  to  the  brush 
With  tails  a-droop ;  while  some  that  whined  in  pain 
Writhed  off  on  reddened  trails.     With  bristled 

mane 

Before  the  flying  stones  a  bolder  few 
Snarled  menace  at  the  foe  as  they  withdrew 
To  fill  the  outer  dusk  with  clamorings. 
Aloft  upon  a  moaning  wind  of  wings 
The  crows  with  harsh,  vituperative  cries 
Now  saw  a  gray  wolf  of  prodigious  size 
Devouring  with  the  frenzy  of  the  starved. 
Thus  fell  to  Hugh  a  bison  killed  and  carved ; 
And  so  Fate's  whims  mysteriously  trend  — 
Woe  in  the  silken  meshes  of  the  friend, 
Weal  in  the  might  and  menace  of  the  foe. 


THE  CRAWL  71 

But  with  the  fading  of  the  afterglow 
The  routed  wolves  found  courage  to  return : 
Amid  the  brush  Hugh  saw  their  eye-balls  burn ; 
And  well  he  knew  how  futile  stick  and  stone 
Should  prove  by  night  to  keep  them  from  their 

own. 

Better  is  less  with  safety,  than  enough 
With  ruin.     He  retreated  to  a  bluff, 
And  scarce  had  reached  it  when  the  pack  swooped 

in 
Upon  the  carcass. 

All  night  long,  the  din 

Of  wrangling  wolves  assailed  the  starry  air, 
While  high  above  them  in  a  brushy  lair 
Hugh  dreamed  of  gnawing  at  the  bloody  feast. 

Along  about  the  blanching  of  the  east, 

When  sleep  is  weirdest  and  a  moment's  flight, 

Remembered  coextensive  with  the  night, 

May  teem  with  hapful  years;   as  light  in  smoke, 

Upon  the  jumble  of  Hugh's  dreaming  broke 

A  buzz  of  human  voices.     Once  again 

He  rode  the  westward  trail  with  Henry's  men  — 

Hoof-smitten  leagues  consuming  in  a  dust. 

And  now  the  nightmare  of  that  broken  trust 

Was  on  him,  and  he  lay  beside  the  spring, 

A  corpse,  yet  heard  the  muffled  parleying 


72  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Above  him  of  the  looters  of  the  dead  : 

But  when  he  might  have  riddled  what  they  said, 

The  babble  flattened  to  a  blur  of  gray  — 

And  lo,  upon  a  bleak  frontier  of  day, 

The  spent  moon  staring  down !    A  little  space 

Hugh  scrutinized  the  featureless  white  face, 

As  though  'twould  speak.     But  when  again  the 

sound 

Grew  up,  and  seemed  to  come  from  under  ground, 
He  cast  the  drowse,  and  peering  down  the  slope, 
Beheld  what  set  at  grapple  fear  and  hope  — 
Three  Indian  horsemen  riding  at  a  jog ! 
Their  ponies,  wading  belly-deep  in  fog, 
That  clung  along  the  valley,  seemed  to  swim, 
And  through  a  thinner  vapor  moving  dim, 
The  men  were  ghost-like. 

Could  they  be  the  Sioux  ? 
Almost  the  wish  became  belief  in  Hugh. 
Or  were  they  Rees  ?    As  readily  the  doubt 
Withheld  him  from  the  hazard  of  a  shout. 
And  while  he  followed  them  with  baffled  gaze, 
Grown  large  and  vague,  dissolving  in  the  haze, 
They  vanished  westward. 

Knowing  well  the  wont 
Of  Indians  moving  on  the  bison-hunt, 
Forthwith  Hugh  guessed  the  early  riders  were 
The  outflung  feelers  of  a  tribe  a-stir 


THE  CRAWL  73 

Like  some  huge  cat  gone  mousing.     So  he  lay 

Concealed,  impatient  with  the  sleepy  day 

That  dawdled  in  the  dawning.     Would  it  bring 

Good  luck  or  ill  ?     His  eager  questioning, 

As  crawling  fog,  took  on  a  golden  hue 

From  sunrise.     He  was  waiting  for  the  Sioux, 

Their    parfleche    panniers     fat    with    sun-dried 

maize 

And  wasna  !     From  the  mint  of  evil  days 
He  would  coin  tales  and  be  no  begging  guest 
About  the  tribal  feast-fires  burning  west, 
But  kinsman  of  the  blood  of  daring  men. 
And  when  the  crawler  stood  erect  again  — 
O  Friend-Betrayer  at  the  Big  Horn's  mouth, 
Beware  of  someone  riding  from  the  South 
To  do  the  deed  that  he  had  lived  to  do ! 

Now  when  the  sun  stood  hour-high  in  the  blue, 
From  where  a  cloud  of  startled  blackbirds  rose 
Down  stream,  a  panic  tumult  broke  the  doze 
Of  windless  morning.     What  unwelcome  news 
Embroiled  the  parliament  of  feathered  shrews  ? 
A  boiling  cloud  against  the  sun  they  lower, 
Flackering  strepent ;   now  a  sooty  shower, 
Big-flaked,   squall-driven   westward,   down  they 

flutter 
To  set  a  clump  of  cottonwoods  a-sputter 


74  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

With   cold   black   fire!    And   once   again,   some 

shock 

Of  sight  or  sound  flings  panic  in  the  flock  — 
Gray  boughs  exploding  in  a  ruck  of  birds ! 

What  augury  in  orniscopic  words 

Did  yon  swart  sibyls  on  the  morning  scrawl  ? 

Now    broke     abruptly     through     the     clacking 

brawl 

A  camp-dog's  barking  and  a  pony's  neigh ; 
Whereat  a  running  nicker  fled  away, 
Attenuating  to  a  rearward  hush ; 
And  lo !  in  hailing  distance  'round  the  brush 
That  fringed  a  jutting  bluff's  base  like  a  beard 
Upon  a  stubborn  chin  out-thrust,  appeared 
A  band  of  mounted  warriors  !     In  their  van 
Aloof  and  lonely  rode  a  gnarled  old  man 
Upon  a  piebald  stallion.     Stooped  was  he 
Beneath  his  heavy  years,  yet  haughtily 
He  wore  them  like  the  purple  of  a  king. 
Keen  for  a  goal,  as  from  the  driving  string 
A  barbed  and  feathered  arrow  truly  sped, 
His  face  was  like  a  flinty  arrow-head, 
And  brooded  westward  in  a  steady  stare. 
There  was  a  sift  of  winter  in  his  hair, 
The  bleakness  of  brown  winter  in  his  look. 


THE  CRAWL  75 

Hugh  saw,  and  huddled  closer  in  his  nook. 

Fled  the  bright  dreams  of  safety,  feast  and  rest 

Before  that  keen,  cold  brooder  on  the  West, 

As  gaudy  leaves  before  the  blizzard  flee. 

'Twas  Elk  Tongue,  fighting  chieftain  of  the  Ree, 

With  all  his  people  at  his  pony's  tail  — 

Full  two-score  lodges  emptied  on  the  trail 

Of  hunger ! 

On  they  came  in  ravelled  rank, 
And  many  a  haggard  eye  and  hollow  flank 
Made  plain  how  close  and  pitilessly  pressed 
The  enemy  that  drove  them  to  the  West  — 
Such  foeman  as  no  warrior  ever  slew. 
A  tale  of  cornfields  plundered  by  the  Sioux 
Their  sagging  panniers  told.     Yet  rich  enough 
They  seemed  to  him  who  watched  them  from  the 

bluff; 

Yea,  pampered  nigh  the  limit  of  desire ! 
No   friend   had   filched  from  them  the  boon  of 

fire 

And  hurled  them  shivering  back  upon  the  beast. 
Erect  they  went,  full-armed  to  strive,  at  least; 
And  nightly  in  a  cozy  ember-glow 
Hope  fed  them  with  a  dream  of  buffalo 
Soon  to  be  overtaken.     After  that, 
Home  with  their  Pawnee  cousins  on  the  Platte, 
Much  meat  and  merry-making  till  the  Spring. 


76  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

On  dragged  the  rabble  like  a  fraying  string 
Too  tautly  drawn.     The  rich-in-ponies  rode, 
For  much  is  light  and  little  is  a  load 
Among  all  heathen  with  no  Christ  to  save! 
Gray  seekers  for  the  yet  begrudging  grave, 
Bent  with  the  hoeing  of  forgotten  maize, 
Wood-hewers,  water-bearers  all  their  days, 
Toiled  'neath  the  life-long  hoarding  of  their  packs. 
And  nursing  squaws,  their  babies  at  their  backs 
Whining  because  the  milk  they  got  was  thinned 
In  dugs  of  famine,  strove  as  with  a  wind. 
Invincibly  equipped  with  their  first  bows 
The  striplings  strutted,  knowing,  as  youth  knows, 
How  fair  life  is  beyond  the  beckoning  blue. 
Cold-eyed  the  grandsires  plodded,  for  they  knew, 
As  frosted  heads  may  know,  how  all  trails  merge 
In  what  lone  land.     Raw  maidens  on  the  verge 
Of  some  half-guessed-at  mystery  of  life, 
In  wistful  emulation  of  the  wife 
Stooped  to  the  fancied  burden  of  the  race ; 
Nor  read  upon  the  withered  granddam's  face 
The  scrawled  tale  of  that  burden  and  its  woe. 
Slant  to  the  sagging  poles  of  the  travaux, 
Numb  to  the  squaw's  harsh  railing  and  the  goad, 
The  lean  cayuses  toiled.     And  children  rode 
A-top  the  household  plunder,  wonder-eyed 
To  see  a  world  flow  by  on  either  side, 


THE  CRAWL  77 

From  blue  air  sprung  to  vanish  in  blue  air, 
A  river  of  enchantments. 

Here  and  there 

The  camp-curs  loped  upon  a  vexing  quest 
Where  countless  hoofs  had  left  a  palimpsest, 
A  taunting  snarl  of  broken  scents.     And  now 
They  sniff  the  clean  bones  of  the  bison  cow, 
Howl  to  the  skies ;   and  now  with  manes  a-rough 
They  nose  the  man-smell  leading  to  the  bluff; 
Pause  puzzled  at  the  base  and  sweep  the  height 
With  questioning  yelps.     Aloft,  crouched  low  in 

fright, 

Already  Hugh  can  hear  the  braves'  guffaws 
At  their  scorned  foeman  yielded  to  the  squaws' 
Inverted  mercy  and  a  slow-won  grave. 
Since  Earth's  first  mother  scolded  from  a  cave 
And  that  dear  riddle  of  her  love  began, 
No  man  has  wrought  a  weapon  against  man 
To  match  the  deadly  venom  brewed  above 
The  lean,  blue,  blinding  heart-fires  of  her  love. 
Well  might  the  hunted  hunter  shrink  aghast ! 
But  thrice  three  seasons  yet  should  swell  the  past, 
So  was  it  writ,  ere  Fate's  keen  harriers 
Should  run  Hugh  Glass  to  earth. 

The  hungry  curs 

Took  up  again  the  tangled  scent  of  food. 
Still  flowed  the  rabble  through  the  solitude  — 


78  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

A  thinning  stream  now  of  the  halt,  the  weak 

And  all  who  had  not  very  far  to  seek 

For  that  weird  pass  whereto  the  fleet  are  slow, 

And  out  of  it  keen  winds  and  numbing  blow, 

Shrill  with  the  fleeing  voices  of  the  dead. 

Slowly  the  scattered  stragglers,  making  head 

Against  their  weariness  as  up  a  steep, 

Fled  westward ;   and  the  morning  lay  asleep 

Upon  the  valley  fallen  wondrous  still. 

Hugh  kept  his  nook,  nor  ventured  forth,  until 
The  high  day  toppled  to  the  blue  descent, 
When  thirst  became  a  master,  and  he  went 
With  painful  scrambling  down  the  broken  scarp, 
Lured  by  the  stream,  that  like  a  smitten  harp 
Rippled  a  muted  music  to  the  sun. 

Scarce  had  he  crossed  the  open  flat,  and  won 
The  half-way  fringe  of  willows,  when  he  saw, 
Slow  plodding  up  the  trail,  a  tottering  squaw 
Whose  years  made  big  the  little  pack  she  bore. 
Crouched  in  the  brush  Hugh  watched  her.     More 

and  more 

The  little  burden  tempted  him.     Why  not  ? 
A  thin  cry  throttled  in  that  lonely  spot 
Could  bring  no  succor.     None  should  ever  know, 
Save  him,  the  feasted  kiote  and  the  crow, 


THE  CRAWL  79 

Why  one  poor  crone  found  not  the  midnight  fire. 
Nor  would  the  vanguard,  quick  with  young  de- 
sire, 

Devouring  distance  westward  like  a  flame, 
Regret  this  ash  dropped  rearward. 

On  she  came, 

Slow-footed,  staring  blankly  on  the  sand  — 
So  close  now  that  it  needed  but  a  hand 
Out-thrust  to  overthrow  her ;   aye,  to  win 
That  priceless  spoil,  a  little  tent  of  skin, 
A  flint  and  steel,  a  kettle  and  a  knife ! 
What  did  the  dying  with  the  means  of  life, 
That  thus  the  fit-to-live  should  suffer  lack  ? 

Poised  for  the   lunge,   what  whimsy   held   him 

back? 

Why  did  he  gaze  upon  the  passing  prize, 
Nor  seize  it  ?     Did  some  gust  of  ghostly  cries 
Awaken  round  her  —  whisperings  of  Eld, 
Wraith-voices  of  the  babies  she  had  held, 
Guarding  the  milkless  paps,  the  withered  womb  ? 
Far  down  a  moment's  cleavage  in  the  gloom 
Of  backward  years  Hugh  saw  her  now  —  nor  saw 
The  little  burden  and  the  feeble  squaw, 
But  someone  sitting  haloed  like  a  saint 
Beside   a   hearth   long   cold.     The   dream   grew 

faint ; 


80  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  when  he  looked  again,  the  crone  was  gone 
Beyond  a  clump  of  willow. 

Crawling  on, 

He  reached  the  river.     Leaning  to  a  pool 
Calm  in  its  cup  of  sand,  he  saw  —  a  fool ! 
A  wild,  wry  mask  of  mirth,  a-grin,  yet  grim, 
Rose  there  to  claim  identity  with  him 
And  ridicule  his  folly.     Pity  ?     Faugh  ! 
Who  pitied  this,  that  it  should  spare  a  squaw 
Spent  in  the  spawning  of  a  scorpion  brood  ? 

He  drank  and  hastened  down  the  solitude, 
Fleeing  that  thing  which  fleered  him,  and  was 

Hugh. 

And  as  he  went  his  self-accusing  grew 
And  with  it,  anger ;  till  it  came  to  seem 
That  somehow  some  sly  Jamie  of  a  dream 
Had  plundered  him  again ;   and  he  was  strong 
With  lust  of  vengeance  and  the  sting  of  wrong, 
So  that  he  travelled  faster  than  for  days. 

Now  when  the  eve  in  many-shaded  grays 

Wove  the  day's  shroud,  and  through  the  lower 

lands 

Lean  fog-arms  groped  with  chilling  spirit  hands, 
Hugh  paused  perplexed.     Elusive,  haunting,  dim, 
As  though  some  memory  that  stirred  in  him, 


THE  CRAWL  81 

Invasive  of  the  real,  outgrew  the  dream, 

There  came  upon  the  breeze  that  stole  up  stream 

A  whiff  of  woodsmoke. 

'Twixt  a  beat  and  beat 

Of  Hugh's  deluded  heart,  it  seemed  the  sweet 
Allure  of  home.  —  A  brief  way,  and  one  came 
Upon  the  clearing  where  the  sumach  flame 
Ran  round  the  forest-fringe;   and  just  beyond 
One  saw  the  slough  grass  nodding  in  the  pond 
Unto  the  sleepy  troll  the  bullfrogs  sung. 
And   then   one   saw  the   place   where  one  was 

young  — 

The  log-house  sitting  on  a  stumpy  rise. 
Hearth-lit  within,  its  windows  were  as  eyes 
That  love  much  and  are  faded  with  old  tears. 
It  seemed  regretful  of  a  life's  arrears, 
Yet  patient,  with  a  self-denying  poise, 
Like  some  old  mother  for  her  bearded  boys 
Waiting  sweet-hearted  and  a  little  sad.  — 
So  briefly  dreamed  a  recrudescent  lad 
Beneath  gray  hairs,  and  fled. 

Through  chill  and  damp 
Still  groped  the  odor,  hinting  at  a  camp, 
A  two-tongued  herald  wooing  hope  and  fear. 
Was  hospitality  or  danger  near  ? 
A  Sioux  war-party  hot  upon  the  trail, 
Or  laggard  Rees  ?     Hugh  crawled  across  the  vale, 


82  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Toiled  up  along  a  zigzag  gully's  bed 
And  reached  a  bluff's  top.     In  a  smudge  of  red 
The  West  burned  low.     Hill  summits,  yet  alight, 
And  pools  of  gloom  anticipating  night 
Mottled  the  landscape  to  the  dull  blue  rim. 
What  freak  of  fancy  had  imposed  on  him  ? 
Could  one  smell  home-smoke  fifty  years  away  ? 
He  saw  no  fire ;   no  pluming  spire  of  gray 
Rose  in  the  dimming  air  to  woo  or  warn. 

He  lay  upon  the  bare  height,  fagged,  forlorn, 
And  old  times  came  upon  him  with  the  creep 
Of  subtle  drugs  that  put  the  will  to  sleep 
And  wreak  doom  to  the  soothing  of  a  dream. 
So  listlessly  he  scanned  the  sombrous  stream, 
Scarce  seeing  what  he  scanned.     The  dark  in- 
creased ; 

A  chill  wind  wakened  from  the  frowning  east 
And  soughed  along  the  vale. 

Then  with  a  start 

He  saw  what  broke  the  torpor  of  his  heart 
And  set  the  wild  blood  free.     From  where  he  lay 
An  easy  point-blank  rifle-shot  away, 
Appeared  a  mystic  germinating  spark 
That  in  some  secret  garden  of  the  dark 
Upreared  a  frail,  blue,  nodding  stem,  whereon 
A  ruddy  lily  flourished  —  and  was  gone ! 


THE  CRAWL  83 

What  miracle  was  this  ?  Again  it  grew, 
The  scarlet  blossom  on  the  stem  of  blue, 
And  withered  back  again  into  the  night. 

With  pounding  heart  Hugh  crawled   along  the 

height 

And  reached  a  point  of  vantage  whence,  below, 
He  saw  capricious  witch-lights  dim  and  glow 
Like  far-spent  embers  quickened  in  a  breeze. 
'Twas  surely  not  a  camp  of  laggard  Rees, 
Nor  yet  of  Siouan  warriors  hot  in  chase. 
Dusk  and  a  quiet  bivouacked  in  that  place. 
A  doddering  vagrant  with  numb  hands,  the  Wind 
Fumbled  the  dying  ashes  there,  and  whined. 
It  was  the  day-old  camp-ground  of  the  foe ! 

Glad-hearted  now,  Hugh  gained  the  vale  below, 
Keen  to  possess  once  more  the  ancient  gift. 
Nearing  the  glow,  he  saw  vague  shadows  lift 
Out  of  the  painted  gloom  of  smouldering  logs  — 
Distorted  bulks  that  bristled,  and  were  dogs 
Snarling  at  this  invasion  of  their  lair. 
Hugh  charged  upon  them,  growling  like  a  bear, 
And  sent  them  whining. 

Now  again  to  view 

The  burgeoning  of  scarlet,  gold  and  blue, 
The  immemorial  miracle  of  fire  ! 
From  heaped-up  twigs  a  tenuous  smoky  spire 


84  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Arose,  and  made  an  altar  of  the  place. 
The  spark-glow,  faint  upon  the  grizzled  face, 
Transformed  the  kneeling  outcast  to  a  priest; 
And,  native  of  the  light-begetting  East, 
The  Wind  became  a  chanting  acolyte. 
These  two,  entempled  in  the  vaulted  night, 
Breathed  conjuries  of  interwoven  breath. 
Then,   hark !  —  the   snapping  of  the   chains 

Death ! 
From  dead  wood,  lo !  —  the  epiphanic  god  ! 

Once  more  the  freightage  of  the  fennel  rod 
Dissolved  the  chilling  pall  of  Jovian  scorn. 
The  wonder  of  the  resurrection  morn, 
The  face  apocalyptic  and  the  sword, 
The  glory  of  the  many-symboled  Lord, 
Hugh,  lifting  up  his  eyes  about  him,  saw ! 
And  something  in  him  like  a  vernal  thaw, 
Voiced  with  the  sound  of  many  waters,  ran 
And  quickened  to  the  laughter  of  a  man. 

Light-heartedly  he  fed  the  singing  flame 
And  took  its  blessing :  till  a  soft  sleep  came 
With  dreaming  that  was  like  a  pleasant  tale. 

The  far  white  dawn  was  peering  up  the  vale 
When  he  awoke  to  indolent  content. 
A  few  shorn  stars  in  pale  astonishment 


THE  CRAWL  85 

Were  huddled  westward ;   and  the  fire  was  low. 

Three  scrawny  camp-curs,  mustered  in  a  row 

Beyond  the  heap  of  embers,  heads  askew, 

Ears  pricked  to  question  what  the  man  might  do, 

Sat  wistfully  regardant.     He  arose ; 

And  they,  grown  canny  in  a  school  of  blows, 

Skulked  to  a  safer  distance,  there  to  raise 

A  dolorous  chanting  of  the  evil  days, 

Their  gray  breath  like  the  body  of  a  prayer. 

Hugh  nursed  the  sullen  embers  to  a  flare, 

Then  set  about  to  view  an  empty  camp 

As  once  before ;  but  now  no  smoky  lamp 

Of  blear  suspicion  searched  a  gloom  of  fraud 

Wherein  a  smirking  Friendship,  like  a  bawd, 

Embraced  a  coward  Safety;  now  no  grief, 

'Twixt  hideous  revelation  and  belief, 

Made  womanish  the  man ;  but  glad  to  strive, 

With  hope  to  nerve  him  and  a  will  to  drive, 

He  knew  that  he  could  finish  in  the  race. 

The  staring  impassivity  of  space 

No  longer  mocked ;   the  dreadful  skyward  climb, 

Where  distance  seemed  identical  with  time, 

Was  past  now;   and  that  mystic  something,  luck, 

Without  which  worth  may  flounder  in  the  ruck, 

Had  turned  to  him  again. 

So  flamelike  soared 
Rekindled  hope  in  him  as  he  explored 


86  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Among  the  ash-heaps ;   and  the  lean  dogs  ran 
And  barked  about  him,  for  the  love  of  man 
Wistful,  yet  fearing.     Surely  he  could  find 
Some  trifle  in  the  hurry  left  behind  — 
Or  haply  hidden  in  the  trampled  sand  — 
That  to  the  cunning  of  a  needy  hand 
Should  prove  the  master-key  of  circumstance: 
For  'tis  the  little  gifts  of  grudging  Chance, 
Well  husbanded,  make  victors. 

Long  he  sought 

Without  avail ;   and,  crawling  back,  he  thought 
Of  how  the  dogs  were  growing  less  afraid, 
And  how  one  might  be  skinned  without  a  blade. 
A  flake  of  flint  might  do  it :   he  would  try. 
And  then  he  saw  —  or  did  the  servile  eye 
Trick  out  a  mental  image  like  the  real  ? 
He  saw  a  glimmering  of  whetted  steel 
Beside  a  heap  now  washed  with  morning  light ! 

Scarce  more  of  marvel  and  the  sense  of  might 
Moved  Arthur  when  he  reached  a  hand  to  take 
The  fay-wrought  brand  emerging  from  the  lake, 
Whereby  a  kingdom  should  be  lopped  of  strife, 
Than  Hugh  now,  pouncing  on  a  trader's  knife 
Worn  hollow  in  the  use  of  bounteous  days ! 

And  now  behold  a  rich  man  by  the  blaze 
Of  his  own  hearth  —  a  lord  of  steel  and  fire ! 


THE  CRAWL  87 

Not  having,  but  the  measure  of  desire 
Determines    wealth.     Who    gaining    more,    seek 

most, 

Are  ever  the  pursuers  of  a  ghost 
And  lend  their  fleetness  to  the  fugitive. 
For  Hugh,  long  goaded  by  the  wish  to  live, 
What  gage  of  mastery  in  fire  and  tool !  — 
That  twain  wherewith  Time  put  the  brute  to 

school, 
Evolving  Man,  the  maker  and  the  seer. 

'Twixt  urging  hunger  and  restraining  fear 

The  gaunt  dogs  hovered  round  the  man;  while 

he 

Cajoled  them  in  the  language  of  the  Ree 
And  simulated  feeding  them  with  sand, 
Until  the  boldest  dared  to  sniff  his  hand, 
Bare-fanged  and  with  conciliative  whine. 
Through  bristled  mane  the  quick  blade  bit  the 

spine 

Below  the  skull ;  and  as  a  flame-struck  thing 
The  body  humped  and  shuddered,  withering; 
The  lank  limbs  huddled,  wilted. 

Now  to  skin 

The  carcass,  dig  a  hole,  arrange  therein 
And  fix  the  pelt  with  stakes,  the  flesh-side  up. 
This  done,  he  shaped  the  bladder  to  a  cup 


88  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

On  willow  withes,  and  filled  the  rawhide  pot 
With  water  from  the  river  —  made  it  hot 
With  roasted  stones,  and  set  the  meat  a-boil. 
Those  days  of  famine  and  prodigious  toil 
Had  wrought  bulimic  cravings  in  the  man, 
And  scarce  the  cooking  of  the  flesh  outran 
The  eating  of  it.     As  a  fed  flame  towers 
According  to  the  fuel  it  devours, 
His  hunger  with  indulgence  grew,  nor  ceased 
Until  the  kettle,  empty  of  the  feast, 
Went  dim,  the  sky  and  valley,  merging,  swirled 
In  subtle  smoke  that  smothered  out  the  world. 
Hugh  slept. 

And  then  —  as  divers,  mounting,  sunder 
A  murmuring  murk  to  blink  in  sudden  wonder 
Upon  a  dazzling  upper  deep  of  blue  — 
He  rose  again  to  consciousness,  and  knew 
The  low  sun  beating  slantly  on  his  face. 

Now  indolently  gazing  round  the  place, 

He  noted  how  the  curs  had  revelled  there  — 

The   bones   and  entrails  gone;    some  scattered 

hair 

Alone  remaining  of  the  pot  of  hide. 
How  strange  he  had  not  heard  them  at  his  side ! 
And  granting  but  one  afternoon  had  passed, 
What  could  have  made  the  fire  burn  out  so  fast  ? 


THE  CRAWL  89 

Had  daylight  waned,  night  fallen,  morning  crept, 
Noon    blazed,    a    new    day    dwindled    while   he 

slept  ? 

And  was  the  friendlike  fire  a  Jamie  too  ? 
Across  the  twilit  consciousness  of  Hugh 
The  old  obsession  like  a  wounded  bird 
Fluttered. 

He  got  upon  his  knees  and  stirred 
The  feathery  ash ;   but  not  a  spark  was  there. 
Already  with  the  failing  sun  the  air 
Went  keen,  betokening  a  frosty  night. 
Hugh  winced  with  something  like  the  clutch  of 

fright. 

How  could  he  bear  the  torture,  how  sustain 
The  sting  of  that  antiquity  of  pain 
Rolled  back  upon  him  —  face  again  the  foe, 
That  yielding  victor,  fleet  in  being  slow, 
That  huge,  impersonal  malevolence  ? 

So  readily  the  tentacles  of  sense 
Root  in  the  larger  standard  of  desire, 
That  Hugh  fell  farther  in  the  loss  of  fire 
Than  in  the  finding  of  it  he  arose. 
And  suddenly  the  place  grew  strange,  as  grows 
A  friend's  house,  when  the  friend  is  on  his  bier, 
And  all  that  was  familiar  there  and  dear 
Puts  on  a  blank,  inhospitable  look. 


90  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Hugh  set  his  face  against  the  east,  and  took 

That  dreariest  of  ways,  the  trail  of  flight. 

He  would  outcrawl  the  shadow  of  the  night 

And  have  the  day  to  blanket  him  in  sleep. 

But  as  he  went  to  meet  the  gloom  a-creep, 

Bemused  with  life's  irrational  rebuffs, 

A  yelping  of  the  dogs  among  the  bluffs 

Rose,  hunger-whetted,  stabbing ;   rent  the  pall 

Of  evening  silence ;   blunted  to  a  drawl 

Amid  the  arid  waterways,  and  died. 

And  as  the  echo  to  the  sound  replied, 

So  in  the  troubled  mind  of  Hugh  was  wrought 

A  reminiscent  cry  of  thought  to  thought 

That,  groping,  found  an  unlocked  door  to  life : 

The  dogs  —  keen  flint  to  skin  one  —  then  the  knife 

Discovered.     Why,  that  made  a  flint  and  steel! 

No  further  with  the  subtle  foe  at  heel 

He  fled ;   for  all  about  him  in  the  rock, 

To  waken  when  the  needy  hand  might  knock, 

A  savior  slept !     He  found  a  flake  of  flint, 

Scraped  from  his  shirt  a  little  wad  of  lint, 

Spilled  on  it  from  the  smitten  stone  a  shower 

Of  ruddy  seed ;   and  saw  the  mystic  flower 

That  genders  its  own  summer,  bloom  anew ! 

And  so  capricious  luck  came  back  to  Hugh; 
And  he  was  happier  than  he  had  been 


THE  CRAWL  91 

Since  Jamie  to  that  unforgiven  sin 
Had  yielded,  ages  back  upon  the  Grand. 
Now  he  would  turn  the  cunning  of  his  hand 
To  carving  crutches,  that  he  might  arise, 
Be  manlike,  lift  more  rapidly  the  skies 
That  crouched  between  his  purpose  and  the  mark. 
The  warm  glow  housed  him  from  the  frosty  dark, 
And  there  he  wrought  in  very  joyous  mood 
And  sang  by  fits  —  whereat  the  solitude 
Set  laggard  singers  snatching  at  the  tune. 
The  gaunter  for  their  hunt,  the  dogs  came  soon 
To  haunt  the  shaken  fringes  of  the  glow, 
And,  pitching  voices  to  the  timeless  woe, 
Outwailed  the  lilting.     So  the  Chorus  sings 
Of  terror,  pity  and  the  tears  of  things 
When  most  the  doomed  protagonist  is  gay. 
The  stars  swarmed  over,  and  the  front  of  day 
Whitened  above  a  white  world,  and  the  sun 
Rose  on  a  sleeper  with  a  task  well  done, 
Nor  roused  him  till  its  burning  topped  the  blue. 

When  Hugh  awoke,  there  woke  a  younger  Hugh, 

Now  half  a  stranger;   and  'twas  good  to  feel 

With  ebbing  sleep  the  old  green  vigor  steal, 

Thrilling,  along  his  muscles  and  his  veins, 

As  in  a  lull  of  winter-cleansing  rains 

The  gray  bough  quickens  to  the  sap  a-creep. 


92  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

It  chanced  the  dogs  lay  near  him,  sound  asleep, 
Curled  nose  to  buttock  in  the  noonday  glow. 
He  killed  the  larger  with  a  well-aimed  blow, 
Skinned,  dressed  and  set  it  roasting  on  a  spit ; 
And  when  'twas  cooked,  ate  sparingly  of  it, 
For  need  might  yet  make  little  seem  a  feast. 

Fording  the  river  shallows,  south  by  east 

He  hobbled  now  along  a  withered  rill 

That  issued  where  old  floods  had  gashed  the  hill  — 

A  cyclopean  portal  yawning  sheer. 

No  storm  of  countless  hoof  had  entered  here : 

It  seemed  a  place  where  nothing  ever  comes 

But  change  of  season.     He  could  hear  the  plums 

Plash  in  the  frosted  thicket,  over-lush ; 

While,  like  a  spirit  lisping  in  the  hush, 

The  crisp  leaves  whispered  round  him  as  they  fell. 

And  ever  now  and  then  the  autumn  spell 

Was  broken  by  an  ululating  cry 

From  where  far  back  with  muzzle  to  the  sky 

The    lone    dog    followed,    mourning.     Darkness 

came; 

And  huddled  up  beside  a  cozy  flame, 
Hugh's  sleep  was  but  a  momentary  flight 
Across  a  little  shadow  into  light. 

So  day  on  day  he  toiled :   and  when,  afloat 
Above  the  sunset  like  a  stygian  boat, 


THE   CRAWL  93 

The  new  moon  bore  the  spectre  of  the  old, 

He  saw  —  a  dwindling  strip  of  blue  outrolled  — 

The  valley  of  the  tortuous  Cheyenne. 

And  ere  the  half  moon  sailed  the  night  again, 

Those  far  lone  leagues  had  sloughed  their  garb  of 

blue, 

And  dwindled,  dwindled,  dwindled  after  Hugh, 
Until  he  saw  that  Titan  of  the  plains, 
The  sinewy  Missouri.     Dearth  of  rains 
Had  made  the  Giant  gaunt  as  he  who  saw. 
This  loud  Chain-Smasher  of  a  late  March  thaw 
Seemed  never  to  have  bellowed  at  his  banks ; 
And  yet,  with  staring  ribs  and  hollow  flanks, 
The  urge  of  an  indomitable  will 
Proclaimed  him  of  the  breed  of  giants  still ; 
And  where  the  current  ran  a  boiling  track, 
'Twas  like  the  muscles  of  a  mighty  back 
Grown  Atlantean  in  the  wrestler's  craft. 

Hugh  set  to  work  and  built  a  little  raft 

Of  driftwood  bound  with  grapevines.     So  it  fell 

That  one  with  an  amazing  tale  to  tell 

Came  drifting  to  the  gates  of  Kiowa. 


IV 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST 

NOT  long  Hugh  let  the  lust  of  vengeance  gnaw 
Upon  him  idling ;   though  the  tale  he  told 
And  what  report  proclaimed  him,  were  as  gold 
To  buy  a  winter's  comfort  at  the  Post. 
"I  can  not  rest;  for  I  am  but  the  ghost 
Of  someone  murdered  by  a  friend,"  he  said, 
"So  long  as  yonder  traitor  thinks  me  dead, 
Aye,  buried  in  the  bellies  of  the  crows 
Andkiotes!" 

Whereupon  said  one  of  those 
Who  heard  him,  noting  how  the  old  man  shook 
As  with  a  chill :   "God  fend  that  one  should  look 
With  such  a  blizzard  of  a  face  for  me !" 
For  he  went  grayer  like  a  poplar  tree 
That  shivers,  ruffling  to  the  first  faint  breath 
Of  storm,  while  yet  the  world  is  still  as  death 
Save  where,  far  off,  the  kenneled  thunders  bay. 

So  brooding,  he  grew  stronger  day  by  day, 
Until  at  last  he  laid  the  crutches  by. 
And  then  one  evening  came  a  rousing  cry 
94 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST    95 

From  where  the  year's  last  keelboat  hove  in  view 
Around  the  bend,  its  swarthy,  sweating  crew 
Slant  to  the  shouldered  line. 

Men  sang  that  night 
In  Kiowa,  and  by  the  ruddy  light 
Of  leaping  fires  amid  the  wooden  walls 
The  cups  went  round;    and  there  were  merry 

brawls 

Of  bearded  lads  no  older  for  the  beard ; 
And  laughing  stories  vied  with  tales  of  weird 
By  stream  and  prairie  trail  and  mountain  pass, 
Until  the  tipsy  Bourgeois  bawled  for  Glass 
To  'shame  these  with  a  man's  tale  fit  to  hear.' 

The  graybeard,  sitting  where  the  light  was  blear, 
With  little  heart  for  revelry,  began 
His  story,  told  as  of  another  man 
Who,  loving  late,  loved  much  and  was  betrayed. 
He  spoke  unwitting  how  his  passion  played 
Upon  them,  how  their  eyes  grew  soft  or  hard 
With  what  he  told ;   yet  something  of  the  bard 
He  seemed,  and  his  the  purpose  that  is  art's, 
Whereby  men  make  a  vintage  of  their  hearts 
And  with  the  wine  of  beauty  deaden  pain. 
Low-toned,  insistent  as  October  rain, 
His  voice  beat  on ;   and  now  and  then  would  flit 
Across  the  melancholy  gray  of  it 


96  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

A  glimmer  of  cold  fire  that,  like  the  flare 

Of  soundless  lightning,  showed  a  world  made  bare, 

Green  Summer  slain  and  all  its  leafage  stripped. 

And  bronze  jaws  tightened,  brawny  hands  were 

gripped, 

As  though  each  hearer  had  a  fickle  friend. 
But  when  the  old  man  might  have  made  an  end, 
Rounding  the  story  to  a  peaceful  close 
At  Kiowa,  songlike  his  voice  arose, 
The  grinning  gray  mask  lifted  and  the  eyes 
Burned  as  a  bard's  who  sees  and  prophesies, 
Conning  the  future  as  a  time  long  gone. 
Swaying  to  rhythm  the  dizzy  tale  plunged  on 
Even  to  the  cutting  of  the  traitor's  throat, 
And  ceased  —  as  though  a  bloody  strangling  smote 
The   voice   of  that    gray   chanter,    drunk   with 

doom. 
And  there  was  shuddering  in  the  blue-smeared 

gloom 

Of  fallen  fires.     It  seemed  the  deed  was  done 
Before  their  eyes  who  heard. 

The  morrow's  sun, 

Low  over  leagues  of  frost-enchanted  plain, 
Saw  Glass  upon  his  pilgrimage  again, 
Northbound  as  hunter  for  the  keelboat's  crew. 
And  many  times  the  wide  autumnal  blue 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST    97 

Burned  out  and  darkened  to  a  deep  of  stars ; 
And  still  they  toiled  among  the  snags  and  bars  — 
Those  lean  up-stream  men,  straining  at  the  rope, 
Lashed  by  the  doubt  and  strengthened  by  the 

hope 

Of  backward  winter  —  engines  wrought  of  bone 
And  muscle,  panting  for  the  Yellowstone, 
Bend  after  bend  and  yet  more  bends  away. 
Now  was  the  river  like  a  sandy  bay 
At  ebb-tide,  and  the  far-off  cutbank's  boom 
Mocked  them  in  shallows ;  now  'twas  like  a  flume 
With  which  the  toilers,  barely  creeping,  strove. 
And  bend  by  bend  the  selfsame  poplar  grove, 
Set  on  the  selfsame  headland,  so  it  seemed, 
Confronted  them,  as  though  they  merely  dreamed 
Of  passing  one  drear  point. 

So  on  and  up 

Past  where  the  tawny  Titan  gulps  the  cup 
Of  Cheyenne  waters,  past  the  Moreau's  mouth ; 
And   still  wry  league  and   stubborn  league    fell 

south, 

Becoming  haze  and  weary  memory. 
Then  past  the  empty  lodges  of  the  Ree 
That  gaped  at  cornfields  plundered  by  the  Sioux; 
And  there  old  times  came  mightily  on  Hugh, 
For  much  of  him  was  born  and  buried  there. 
Some  troubled  glory  of  that  wind-tossed  hair 


98  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Was  on  the  trampled  corn ;  the  lonely  skies, 
So  haunted  with  the  blue  of  Jamie's  eyes, 
Seemed  taunting  him;    and  through  the  frosted 

wood 

Along  the  flat,  where  once  their  tent  had  stood, 
A  chill  wind  sorrowed,  and  the  blackbirds'  brawl 
Amid  the  funeral  torches  of  the  Fall 
Ran  raucously,  a  desecrating  din. 

Past  where  the  Cannon  Ball  and  Heart  come  in 
They  labored.     Now  the  Northwest  'woke  at  last. 
The  gaunt  bluffs  bellowed  back  the  trumpet  blast 
Of  charging  winds  that  made  the  sandbars  smoke. 
To  breathe  now  was  to  gulp  fine  sand,  and  choke  : 
The  stinging  air  was  sibilant  with  whips. 
Leaning  the  more  and  with  the  firmer  grips, 
Still  northward  the  embattled  toilers  pressed 
To  where  the  river  yaws  into  the  west. 
There  stood  the  Mandan  village. 

Now  began 

The  chaining  of  the  Titan.     Drift-ice  ran. 
The  winged  hounds  of  Winter  ceased  to  bay. 
The  stupor  of  a  doom  completed  lay 
Upon  the  world.     The  biting  darkness  fell. 
Out  in  the  night,  resounding  as  a  well, 
They  heard  the  deckplanks  popping  in  a  vise 
Of  frost ;   all  night  the  smithies  of  the  ice 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST    99 

Reechoed  with  the  griding  jar  and  clink 
Of  ghostly  hammers  welding  link  to  link  : 
And  morning  found  the  world  without  a  sound. 
There  lay  the  stubborn  Prairie  Titan  bound, 
To  wait  the  far-off  Heraclean  thaw, 
Though  still  in  silent  rage  he  strove  to  gnaw 
The  ragged  shackles  knitting  at  his  breast. 

And  so  the  boatman  won  a  winter's  rest 
Among  the  Mandan  traders  :   but  for  Hugh 
There  yet  remained  a  weary  work  to  do. 
Across  the  naked  country  west  by  south 
His  purpose  called  him  at  the  Big  Horn's  mouth  — 
Three  hundred  miles  of  winging  for  the  crow ; 
But  by  the  river  trail  that  he  must  go 
'Twas  seven  hundred  winding  miles  at  least. 

So  now  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  feast, 
Snug  ease,  the  pleasant  tale,  the  merry  mood, 
And  took  the  bare,  foot-sounding  solitude 
Northwestward.     Long  they  watched  him  from 

the  Post, 

Skied  on  a  bluff-rim,  fading  like  a  ghost 
At  gray  cock-crow ;   and  hooded  in  his  breath, 
He  seemed  indeed  a  fugitive  from  Death 
On  whom  some  tatter  of  the  shroud  still  clung. 
Blank  space  engulfed  him. 

Now  the  moon  was  young 


ioo  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

When  he  set  forth ;   and  day  by  day  he  strode, 
His  scarce  healed  wounds  upon  him  like  a  load ; 
And  dusk  by  dusk  his  fire  outflared  the  moon 
That  waxed  until  it  wrought  a  spectral  noon 
At  nightfall.     Then  he  came  to  where,  awhirl 
With  Spring's  wild  rage,  the  snow-born  Titan  girl, 
A  skyey  wonder  on  her  virgin  face, 
Receives  the  virile  Yellowstone's  embrace 
And  bears  the  lusty  Seeker  for  the  Sea. 
A  bleak,  horizon-wide  serenity 
Clung  round  the  valley  where  the  twain  lay  dead. 
A  winding  sheet  was  on  the  marriage  bed. 

'Twas  warmer  now ;  the  sky  grew  overcast ; 
And  as  Hugh  strode  southwestward,  all  the  vast 
Gray  void  seemed  suddenly  astir  with  wings 
And  multitudinary  whisperings  — 
The  muffled  sibilance  of  tumbling  snow. 
It  seemed  no  more  might  living  waters  flow, 
Moon  gleam,  star  glint,  dawn  smoulder  through, 

bird  sing, 

Or  ever  any  fair  familiar  thing 
Be  so  again.     The  outworn  winds  were  furled. 
Weird  weavers  of  the  twilight  of  a  world 
Wrought,  thread  on  kissing  thread,  the  web  of 

doom. 
Grown  insubstantial  in  the  knitted  gloom, 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST        101 

The  bluffs  loomed  eerie,  and  the  scanty  trees 
Were  dwindled  to  remote  dream-traceries 
That  never  might  be  green  or  shield  a  nest. 

All  day  with  swinging  stride  Hugh  forged  south- 
west 

Along  the  Yellowstone's  smooth-paven  stream, 
A  dream-shape  moving  in  a  troubled  dream ; 
And  all  day  long  the  whispering  weavers  wove. 
And  close  on  dark  he  came  to  where  a  grove 
Of  cottonwoods  rose  tall  and  shadow-thin 
Against  the  northern  bluffs.     He  camped  therein 
And  with  cut  boughs  made  shelter  as  he  might. 

Close  pressed  the  blackness  of  the  snow-choked 

night 

About  him,  and  his  fire  of  plum  wood  purred. 
Athwart  a  soft  penumbral  drowse  he  heard 
The  tumbling  snowflakes  sighing  all  around, 
Till  sleep  transformed  it  to  a  Summer  sound 
Of  boyish  memory  —  susurrant  bees, 
The  Southwind  in  the  tousled  apple  trees 
And  slumber  flowing  from  their  leafy  gloom. 

He  wakened  to  the  cottonwoods'  deep  boom. 
Black  fury  was  the  world.     The  northwest's  roar, 
As  of  a  surf  upon  a  shipwreck  shore, 


102  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Plunged  high  above  him  from  the  sheer   bluff's 

verge ; 

And,  like  the  backward  sucking  of  the  surge, 
Far  fled  the  sobbing  of  the  wild  snow-spray. 

Black  blindness  grew  white  blindness  —  and  'twas 

day. 

All  being  now  seemed  narrowed  to  a  span 
That  held  a  sputtering  wood  fire  and  a  man ; 
Beyond  was  tumult  and  a  whirling  maze. 
The  trees  were  but  a  roaring  in  a  haze; 
The    sheer   bluff-wall   that   took   the    blizzard's 

charge 

Was  thunder  flung  along  the  hidden  marge 
Of  chaos,  stridden  by  the  ghost  of  light. 
White  blindness  grew  black  blindness  —  and  'twas 

night 
Wherethrough  nor  moon  nor  any  star  might  grope. 

Two  days  since,  Hugh  had  killed  an  antelope 
And  what  remained  sufficed  the  time  of  storm. 
The  snow  banked  round  his  shelter  kept  him  warm 
And  there  was  wood  to  burn  for  many  a  day. 

The  third  dawn,  oozing  through  a  smudge  of  gray, 

Awoke  him.     It  was  growing  colder  fast. 

Still  from  the  bluff  high  over  boomed  the  blast, 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST        103 

But  now  it  took  the  void  with  numbing  wings. 
By  noon  the  woven  mystery  of  things 
Frayed  raggedly,  and  through  a  sudden  rift 
At  length  Hugh  saw  the  beetling  bluff-wall  lift 
A  sturdy  shoulder  to  the  flying  rack. 
Slowly  the  sense  of  distances  came  back 
As  with  the  waning  day  the  great  wind  fell. 
The  pale  sun  set  upon  a  frozen  hell. 
The  wolves  howled. 

Hugh  had  left  the  Mandan  town 
When,  heifer-horned,  the  maiden  moon  lies  down 
Beside  the  sea  of  evening.     Now  she  rose 
Scar-faced  and  staring  blankly  on  the  snows 
While  yet  the  twilight  tarried  in  the  west ; 
And  more  and  more  she  came  a  tardy  guest 
As    Hugh    pushed    onward    through    the   frozen 

waste 

Until  she  stole  on  midnight  shadow-faced, 
A  haggard  spectre;  then  no  more  appeared. 

'Twas  on  that  time  the  man  of  hoary  beard 
Paused  in  the  early  twilight,  looming  lone 
Upon  a  bluff-rim  of  the  Yellowstone, 
And  peered  across  the  white  stream  to  the  south 
Where  in  the  flatland  at  the  Big  Horn's  mouth 
The  new  fort  stood  that  Henry's  men  had  built. 


104  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

What  perfect  peace  for  such  a  nest  of  guilt ! 
What  satisfied  immunity  from  woe ! 
Yon  sprawling  shadow,  pied  with  candle-glow 
And  plumed  with  sparkling  wood-smoke,  might 

have  been 

A  homestead  with  the  children  gathered  in 
To  share  its  bounty  through  the  holidays. 
Hugh  saw  their  faces  round  the  gay  hearth-blaze : 
The  hale  old  father  in  a  mood  for  yarns 
Or  boastful  of  the  plenty  of  his  barns, 
Fruitage  of  honest  toil  and  grateful  lands ; 
And,  half  a  stranger  to  her  folded  hands, 
The  mother  with  October  in  her  hair 
And  August  in  her  face.     One  moment  there 
Hugh  saw  it.     Then  the  monstrous  brutal  fact 
Wiped  out  the  dream  and  goaded  him  to  act, 
Though  now  to  act  seemed  strangely  like  a  dream. 

Descending  from  the  bluff",  he  crossed  the  stream, 
The  dry  snow  fifing  to  his  eager  stride. 
Reaching  the  fort  stockade,  he  paused  to  bide 
The  passing  of  a  whimsy.     Was  it  true  ? 
Or  was  this  but  the  fretted  wraith  of  Hugh 
Whose  flesh  had  fed  the  kiotes  long  ago  ? 

Still  through  a  chink  he  saw  the  candle-glow, 
So  like  an  eye  that  brazened  out  a  wrong. 
And  now  there  came  a  flight  of  muffled  song, 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST        105 

The  rhythmic  thudding  of  a  booted  heel 

That  timed  a  squeaking  fiddle  to  a  reel ! 

How  swiftly  men  forget !     The  spawning  Earth 

Is  fat  with  graves;   and  what  is  one  man  worth 

That  fiddles  should  be  muted  at  his  fall  ? 

He  should   have  died   and  did  not  —  that  was 

all. 

Well,  let  the  living  jig  it !  He  would  turn 
Back  to  the  night,  the  spacious  unconcern 
Of  wilderness  that  never  played  the  friend. 

Now  came  the  song  and  fiddling  to  an  end, 

And    someone    laughed    within.     The    old    man 

winced, 

Listened  with  bated  breath,  and  was  convinced 
'Twas  Jamie  laughing !     Once  again  he  heard. 
Joy  filled  a  hush  'twixt  heart-beats  like  a  bird ; 
Then  like  a  famished  cat  his  lurking  hate 
Pounced  crushingly. 

He  found  the  outer  gate, 
Beat  on  it  with  his  shoulder,  raised  a  cry. 
No  doubt  'twas  deemed  a  fitful  wind  went  by ; 
None  stirred.     But  when  he  did   not  cease  to 

shout, 

A  door  creaked  open  and  a  man  came  out 
Amid  the  spilling  candle-glimmer,  raised 
The  wicket  in  the  outer  gate  and  gazed 


io6  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

One  moment  on  a  face  as  white  as  death, 
Because  the  beard  was  thick  with  frosted  breath 
Made  mystic  by  the  stars.     Then  came  a  gasp, 
The  clatter  of  the  falling  wicket's  hasp, 
The  crunch  of  panic  feet  along  the  snow; 
And  someone  stammered  huskily  and  low : 
"My   God!     I   saw  the  Old    Man's   ghost   out 

there!" 

JTwas  spoken  as  one  speaks  who  feels  his  hair 
Prickle  the  scalp.  And  then  another  said  — 
It  seemed  like  Henry's  voice  —  "The  dead  are 

dead : 

What  talk  is  this,  Le  Bon  ?    You  saw  him  die ! 
Who's  there?" 

Hugh  strove  to  shout,  to  give  the  lie 
To  those  within ;   but  could  not  fetch  a  sound. 
Just  so  he  dreamed  of  lying  under  ground 
Beside  the  Grand  and  hearing  overhead 
The  talk  of  men.     Or  was  he  really  dead, 
And  all  this  but  a  maggot  in  the  brain  ? 

Then  suddenly  the  clatter  of  a  chain 
Aroused  him,  and  he  saw  the  portal  yawn 
And  saw  a  bright  rectangled  patch  of  dawn 
As  through  a  grave's  mouth  —  no,  'twas  candle- 
light 
Poured  through  the  open  doorway  on  the  night ; 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GHOST        107 

And  those  were  men  before  him,  bulking  black 
Against  the  glow. 

Reality  flashed  back; 
He  strode  ahead  and  entered  at  the  door. 
A  falling  fiddle  jangled  on  the  floor 
And  left  a  deathly  silence.     On  his  bench 
The  fiddler  shrank.     A  row  of  eyes,  a-blench 
With  terror,  ran  about  the  naked  hall. 
And  there  was  one  who  huddled  by  the  wall 
And  hid  his  face  and  shivered. 

For  a  spell 
That    silence    clung ;     and    then    the   old    man : 

"Well, 

Is  this  the  sort  of  welcome  that  I  get  ? 
'Twas  not  my  time  to  feed  the  kiotes  yet ! 
Put  on  the  pot  and  stew  a  chunk  of  meat 
And  you  shall  see  how  much  a  ghost  can  eat ! 
I've  journeyed  far  if  what  I  hear  be  true !" 

Now  in   that  none   might   doubt  the  voice  of 

Hugh, 

Nor  yet  the  face,  however  it  might  seem 
A  blurred  reflection  in  a  flowing  stream, 
A  buzz  of  wonder  broke  the  trance  of  dread. 
"Good  God  !"  the  Major  gasped;   "We  thought 

you  dead ! 
Two  men  have  testified  they  saw  you  die!" 


io8  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

"If  they  speak  truth,"  Hugh  answered,  "then  I  lie 
Both  here  and  by  the  Grand.     If  I  be  right, 
Then  two  lie  here  and  shall  lie  from  this  night. 
Which  are  they?" 

Henry  answered  :   "Yon  is  one." 

The  old  man  set  the  trigger  of  his  gun 

And  gazed  on  Jules  who  cowered  by  the  wall. 

Eyes  blinked,  expectant  of  the  hammer's  fall ; 

Ears  strained,  anticipative  of  the  roar. 

But  Hugh  walked  leisurely  across  the  floor 

And  kicked  the  croucher,  saying:   "Come,  get  up 

And  wag  your  tail !     I  couldn't  kill  a  pup !" 

Then  turning  round :   "I  had  a  faithful  friend; 

No  doubt  he  too  was  with  me  to  the  end ! 

Where's  Jamie?" 

"Started  out  before  the  snows 
For  Atkinson." 


JAMIE 

THE  Country  of  the  Crows, 
Through  which  the  Big  Horn  and  the  Rosebud 

run, 

Sees  over  mountain  peaks  the  setting  sun ; 
And  southward  from  the  Yellowstone  flung  wide, 
It  broadens  ever  to  the  morning  side 
And  has  the  Powder  on  its  vague  frontier. 
About  the  subtle  changing  of  the  year, 
Ere  even  favored  valleys  felt  the  stir 
Of  Spring,  and  yet  expectancy  of  her 
Was  like  a  pleasant  rumor  all  repeat 
Yet  none  may  prove,  the  sound  of  horses'  feet 
Went  eastward  through  the  silence  of  that  land. 
For  then  it  was  there  rode  a  little  band 
Of  trappers  out  of  Henry's  Post,  to  bear 
Dispatches  down  to  Atkinson,  and  there 
To  furnish  out  a  keelboat  for  the  Horn. 
And  four  went  lightly,  but  the  fifth  seemed  worn 
As  with  a  heavy  heart ;   for  that  was  he 
Who  should  have  died  but  did  not. 
109. 


no  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Silently 

He  heard  the  careless  parley  of  his  men, 
And   thought   of  how  the   Spring   should   come 

again, 

That  garish  strumpet  with  her  world-old  lure, 
To  waken  hope  where  nothing  may  endure, 
To  quicken  love  where  loving  is  betrayed. 
Yet  now  and  then  some  dream  of  Jamie  made 
Slow  music  in  him  for  a  little  while ; 
And  they  who  rode  beside  him  saw  a  smile 
Glimmer  upon  that  ruined  face  of  gray, 
As  on  a  winter  fog  the  groping  day 
Pours  glory  through  a  momentary  rift. 
Yet  never  did  the  gloom  that  bound  him,  lift; 
He  seemed  as  one  who  feeds  upon  his  heart 
And  finds,  despite  the  bitter  and  the  smart, 
A  little  sweetness  and  is  glad  for  that. 

Now  up  the  Powder,  striking  for  the  Platte 
Across  the  bleak  divide  the  horsemen  went ; 
Attained  that  river  where  its  course  is  bent 
From  north  to  east :   and  spurring  on  apace 
Along  the  wintry  valley,  reached  the  place 
Where  from  the  west  flows  in  the  Laramie. 
Thence,  fearing  to  encounter  with  the  Ree, 
They  headed  eastward  through  the  barren  land 
To  where,  fleet-footed  down  a  track  of  sand, 


JAMIE  in 

The  Niobrara  races  for  the  morn  — 
A  gaunt-loined  runner. 

Here  at  length  was  born 
Upon  the  southern  slopes  the  baby  Spring, 
A  timid,  fretful,  ill-begotten  thing, 
A-suckle  at  the  Winter's  withered  paps : 
Not  such  as  when  announced  by  thunder-claps 
And  ringed  with  swords  of  lightning,  she  would 

ride, 

The  haughty  victrix  and  the  mystic  bride, 
Clad  splendidly  as  never  Sheba's  Queen, 
Before  her  marching  multitudes  of  green 
In  many-bannered  triumph  !     Grudging,  slow, 
Amid  the  fraying  fringes  of  the  snow 
The    bunch-grass    sprouted;     and    the    air   was 

chill. 

Along  the  northern  slopes  'twas  winter  still, 
And  no  root  dreamed  what  Triumph-over-Death 
Was  nurtured  now  in  some  bleak  Nazareth 
Beyond  the  crest  to  sunward. 

On  they  spurred 

Through  vacancies  that  waited  for  the  bird, 
And  everywhere  the  Odic  Presence  dwelt. 
The  Southwest  blew,  the  snow  began  to  melt ; 
And  when  they  reached  the  valley  of  the  Snake, 
The  Niobrara's  ice  began  to  break, 


112  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

And  all  night  long  and  all  day  long  it  made 
A  sound  as  of  a  random  cannonade 
With  rifles  snarling  down  a  skirmish  line. 

The  geese  went  over.     Every  tree  and  vine 
Was  dotted  thick  with  leaf-buds  when  they  saw 
The  little  river  of  Keyapaha 
Grown  mighty  for  the  moment.     Then  they  came, 
One  evening  when  all  thickets  were  aflame 
With  pale  green  witch-fires  and  the  windflowers 

blew, 

To  where  the  headlong  Niobrara  threw 
His  speed  against  the  swoln  Missouri's  flank 
And  hurled  him  roaring  to  the  further  bank  — 
A  giant  staggered  by  a  pigmy's  sling. 
Thence,  plunging  ever  deeper  into  Spring, 
Across  the  greening  prairie  east  by  south 
They   rode,   and,  just   above  the   Platte's  wide 

mouth, 
Came,  weary  with  the  trail,  to  Atkinson. 

There  all  the  vernal  wonder-work  was  done : 
No  care-free  heart  might  find  aught  lacking  there. 
The  dove's  call  wandered  in  the  drowsy  air; 
A  love-dream  brooded  in  the  lucent  haze. 
Priapic  revellers,  the  shrieking  jays 
Held  mystic  worship  in  the  secret  shade. 
Woodpeckers  briskly  plied  their  noisy  trade 


JAMIE  113 

Along  the  tree-boles,  and  their  scarlet  hoods 
Flashed  flame-like  in  the  smoky  cottonwoods. 
What  lacked  ?     Not  sweetness  in  the  sun-lulled 

breeze ; 

The  plum  bloom  murmurous  with  bumblebees 
Was  drifted  deep  in  every  draw  and  slough. 
Not  color ;   witcheries  of  gold  and  blue 
The  dandelion  and  the  violet 
Wove  in  the  green.     Might  not  the  sad  forget, 
The  happy  here  have  nothing  more  to  seek  ? 
Lo,  yonder  by  that  pleasant  little  creek, 
How  one  might  loll  upon  the  grass  and  fish 
And  build  the  temple  of  one's  wildest  wish 
'Twixt  nibbles  !     Surely  there  was  quite  enough 
Of  wizard-timber  and  of  wonder-stufF 
To  rear  it  nobly  to  the  blue-domed  roof! 

Yet  there  was  one  whose  spirit  stood  aloof 
From  all  this  joyousness  —  a  gray  old  man, 
No  nearer  now  than  when  the  quest  began 
To  what  he  sought  on  that  long  winter  trail. 

Aye,  Jamie  had  been  there ;   but  when  the  tale 
That  roving  trappers  brought  from  Kiowa 
Was  told  to  him,  he  seemed  as  one  who  saw 
A  ghost,  and  could  but  stare  on  it,  they  said : 
Until  one  day  he  mounted  horse  and  fled 


H4  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Into  the  North,  a  devil-ridden  man. 
"I've  got  to  go  and  find  him  if  I  can," 
Was  all  he  said  for  days  before  he  left. 

And  what  of  Hugh  ?     So  long  of  love  bereft, 
So  long  sustained  and  driven  by  his  hate, 
A  touch  of  ruth  now  made  him  desolate. 
No  longer  eager  to  avenge  the  wrong, 
With  not  enough  of  pity  to  be  strong 
And  just  enough  of  love  to  choke  and  sting, 
A  gray  old  hulk  amid  the  surge  of  Spring 
He  floundered  on  a  lee-shore  of  the  heart. 

But  when  the  boat  was  ready  for  the  start 
Up  the  long  watery  stairway  to  the  Horn, 
Hugh  joined  the  party.     And  the  year  was  shorn 
Of  blooming  girlhood  as  they  forged  amain 
Into  the  North ;  the  late  green-mantled  plain 
Grew  sallow;   and  the  ruthless  golden  shower 
Of  Summer  wrought  in  lust  upon  the  flower 
That  withered  in  the  endless  martyrdom 
To  seed.     The  scarlet  quickened  on  the  plum 
About  the  Heart's  mouth  when  they  came  thereto ; 
Among  the  Mandans  grapes  were  turning  blue, 
And  they  were  purple  at  the  Yellowstone. 
A  frosted  scrub-oak,  standing  out  alone 
Upon  a  barren  bluff  top,  gazing  far 
Above  the  crossing  at  the  Powder's  bar, 


JAMIE  115 

Was  spattered  with  the  blood  of  Summer  slain. 

So  it  was  Autumn  in  the  world  again, 

And  all  those  months  of  toil  had  yielded  nought 

To  Hugh.     (How  often  is  the  seeker  sought 

By    what    he    seeks  —  a    blind,    heart-breaking 

game !) 

For  always  had  the  answer  been  the  same 
From  roving  trapper  and  at  trading  post : 
Aye,  one  who  seemed  to  stare  upon  a  ghost 
And  followed  willy-nilly  where  it  led, 
Had  gone  that  way  in  search  of  Hugh,  they  said  — 
A  haggard,  blue-eyed,  yellow-headed  chap. 

And  often  had  the  old  man  thought,  *  Mayhap 
He'll  be  at  Henry's  Post  and  we  shall  meet ; 
And  to  forgive  and  to  forget  were  sweet : 
'Tis  for  its  nurse  that  Vengeance  whets  the  tooth  ! 
And  oh  the  golden  time  of  Jamie's  youth, 
That  it  should  darken  for  a  graybeard's  whim !' 
So  Hugh  had  brooded,  till  there  came  on  him 
The  pity  of  a  slow  rain  after  drouth. 

But  at  the  crossing  of  the  Rosebud's  mouth 
A  shadow  fell  upon  his  growing  dream. 
A  band  of  Henry's  traders,  bound  down  stream, 
Who  paused  to  traffic  in  the  latest  word  — 
Down-river  news  for  matters  seen  and  heard 


n6  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

In  higher  waters  —  had  not  met  the  lad, 
Not  yet  encountered  anyone  who  had. 

Alas,  the  journey  back  to  yesterwhiles  ! 
How  tangled  are  the  trails  !     The  stubborn  miles, 
How  wearily  they  stretch  !     And  if  one  win 
The  long  way  back  in  search  of  what  has  been, 
Shall  he  find  aught  that  is  not  strange  and  new  ? 

Thus  wrought  the  melancholy  news  in  Hugh, 
As  he  turned  back  with  those  who  brought  the 

news; 

For  more  and  more  he  dreaded  now  to  lose 
What  doubtful  seeking  rendered  doubly  dear. 
And  in  the  time  when  keen  winds  stripped  the 

year 

He  came  with  those  to  where  the  Poplar  joins 
The  greater  river.     There  Assinoboines, 
Rich  from  the  Summer's  hunting,  had  come  down 
And  flung  along  the  flat  their  ragged  town, 
That  traders  might  bring  goods  and  winter  there. 

So  leave  the  heartsick  graybeard.     Otherwhere 
The  final  curtain  rises  on  the  play. 
Tis  dead  of  Winter  now.     For  day  on  day 
The  blizzard  wind  has  thundered,  sweeping  wide 
From  Mississippi  to  the  Great  Divide 


JAMIE  117 

Out  of  the  North  beyond  Saskatchewan. 

Brief  evening  glimmers  like  an  inverse  dawn 

After  a  long  white  night.     The  tempest  dies ; 

The  snow-haze  lifts.     Now  let  the  curtain  rise 

Upon  Milk  River  valley,  and  reveal 

The  stars  like  broken  glass  on  frosted  steel 

Above  the  Piegan  lodges,  huddled  deep 

In  snowdrifts,  like  a  freezing  flock  of  sheep. 

A  crystal  weight  the  dread  cold  crushes  down 

And  no  one  moves  about  the  little  town 

That  seems  to  grovel  as  a  thing  that  fears. 

But  see  !   a  lodge-flap  swings ;   a  squaw  appears, 
Hunched  with  the  sudden  cold.     Her  footsteps 

creak 

Shrill  in  the  hush.     She  stares  upon  the  bleak, 
White  skyline  for  a  moment,  then  goes  in. 
We  follow  her,  push  back  the  flap  of  skin, 
Enter  the  lodge,  inhale  the  smoke-tanged  air 
And  blink  upon  the  little  faggot-flare 
That  blossoms  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
Unsteady  shadows  haunt  the  outer  gloom 
Wherein    the    walls    are    guessed    at.     Upward, 

far, 

The  smoke-vent  now  and  then  reveals  a  star 
As  in  a  well.     The  ancient  squaw,  a-stoop, 
Her  face  light-stricken,  stirs  a  pot  of  soup 


Ii8  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

That  simmers  with  a  pleasant  smell  and  sound. 
A  gnarled  old  man,  cross-legged  upon  the  ground, 
Sits   brooding   near.     He   feeds   the   flame   with 

sticks ; 

It  brightens.     Lo,  a  leaden  crucifix 
Upon  the  wall !     These  heathen  eyes,  though  dim, 
Have  seen  the  white  man's  God  and  cling  to  Him, 
Lest  on  the  sunset  trail  slow  feet  should  err. 

But  look  again.     From  yonder  bed  of  fur 
Beside  the  wall  a  white  man  strives  to  rise. 
He  lifts  his  head,  with  yearning  sightless  eyes 
Gropes  for  the  light.     A  mass  of  golden  hair 
Falls  round  the  face  that  sickness  and  despair 
Somehow  make  old,  albeit  he  is  young. 
His  weak  voice,  stumbling  to  the  mongrel  tongue 
Of  traders,  flings  a  question  to  the  squaw : 
"You  saw  no  Black  Robe?    Tell  me  what  you 

saw!" 

And  she,  brief-spoken  as  her  race,  replies : 
"Heaped  snow  —  sharp  stars  —  a  kiote  on  the 

rise." 

The  blind  youth  huddles  moaning  in  the  furs. 
The  firewood  spits  and  pops,  the  boiled  pot  purrs 
And  sputters.     On  this  little  isle  of  sound 
The  sea  of  winter  silence  presses  round  — 
One  feels  it  like  a  menace. 


JAMIE  119 

Now  the  crone 

Dips  out  a  cup  of  soup,  and  having  blown 
Upon  it,  takes  it  to  the  sick  man  there 
And  bids  him  eat.     With  wild,  unseeing  stare 
He  turns  upon  her :   "Why  are  they  so  long  ? 
I  can  not  eat !     I've  done  a  mighty  wrong ; 
It  chokes  me !     Oh  no,  no,  I  must  not  die 
Until  the  Black  Robe  comes !"     His  feeble  cry 
Sinks  to  a  whisper.     "Tell  me,  did  they  go  — 
Your  kinsmen  ?" 

"They  went  south  before  the  snow." 
"And  will  they  tell  the  Black  Robe  ?" 

"They  will  tell." 

The  crackling  of  the  faggots  for  a  spell 
Seems  very  loud.     Again  the  sick  man  moans 
And,  struggling  with  the  weakness  in  his  bones, 
Would  gain  his  feet,  but  can  not.     "Go  again, 
And  tell  me  that  you  see  the  bulks  of  men 
Dim  in  the  distance  there." 

The  squaw  obeys ; 

Returns  anon  to  crouch  beside  the  blaze, 
Numb-fingered  and  a-shudder  from  the  night. 
The  vacant  eyes  that  hunger  for  the  light 
Are  turned  upon  her :  "Tell  me  what  you  saw! 
Or  maybe  snowshoes  sounded  up  the  draw. 
Quick,  tell  me  what  you  saw  and  heard  out  there  1" 


120  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

"Heaped  snow  —  sharp  stars — big  stillness  every- 
where." 

One  clutching  at  thin  ice  with  numbing  grip 

Cries  while  he  hopes ;   but  when  his  fingers  slip, 

He  takes  the  final  plunge  without  a  sound. 

So  sinks  the  youth  now,  hopeless.     All  around 

The  winter  silence  presses  in ;  the  walls 

Grow  vague  and  vanish  in  the  gloom  that  crawls 

Close  to  the  failing  fire. 

The  Piegans  sleep. 

Night  hovers  midway  down  the  morning  steep. 
The  sick  man  drowses.     Nervously  he  starts 
And  listens ;   hears  no  sound  except  his  heart's 
And  that  weird  murmur  brooding  stillness  makes. 
But  stealthily  upon  the  quiet  breaks  — 
Vague  as  the  coursing  of  the  hearer's  blood  — 
A  muffled,  rhythmic  beating,  thud  on  thud, 
That,  growing  nearer,  deepens  to  a  crunch. 
So,  hungry  for  the  distance,  snowshoes  munch 
The  crusted  leagues  of  Winter,  stride  by  stride. 
A  camp-dog  barks ;   the  hollow  world  outside 
Brims  with  the  running  howl  of  many  curs. 

Now  wide-awake,  half  risen  in  the  furs, 
The  youth  can  hear  low  voices  and  the  creak 
Of  snowshoes   near   the   lodge.     His   thin,   wild 
shriek 


JAMIE  121 

Startles  the  old  folk  from  their  slumberings : 
"He  comes!    The  Black  Robe!" 

Now  the  door-flap  swings, 
And  briefly  one  who  splutters  Piegan,  bars 
The  way,  then  enters.     Now  the  patch  of  stars 
Is  darkened  with  a  greater  bulk  that  bends 
Beneath  the  lintel.     "Peace  be  with  you,  friends ! 
And  peace  with  him  herein  who  suffers  pain!" 
So  speaks  the  second  comer  of  the  twain  — 
A  white  man  by  his  voice.     And  he  who  lies 
Beside  the  wall,  with  empty,  groping  eyes 
Turned  to  the  speaker:   "There  can  be  no  peace 
For  me,  good  Father,  till  this  gnawing  cease  — 
The  gnawing  of  a  great  wrong  I  have  done." 

The  big  man  leans  above  the  youth  :  "My  son  — " 
(Grown  husky  with  the  word,   the  deep  voice 

breaks, 

And  for  a  little  spell  the  whole  man  shakes 
As  with  the  clinging  cold)  " —  have  faith  and 

hope! 

'Tis  often  nearest  dawn  when  most  we  grope. 
Does  not  the  Good  Book  say,  Who  seek  shall 

find?" 

"But,  Father,  I  am  broken  now  and  blind, 
And  I  have  sought,  and  I  have  lost  the  way." 
To  which  the  stranger :  "What  would  Jesus  say  ? 


122  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Hark  !     In  the  silence  of  the  heart  'tis  said  — 
By  their  own  weakness  are  the  feeble  sped ; 
The  humblest  feet  are  surest  for  the  goal ; 
The  blind  shall  see  the  City  of  the  Soul. 
Lay  down  your  burden  at  His  feet  to-night." 

Now  while  the  fire,  replenished,  bathes  in  light 
The  young  face  scrawled  with  suffering  and  care, 
Flinging  ironic  glories  on  the  hair 
And  glinting  on  dull  eyes  that  once  flashed  blue, 
The  sick  one  tells  the  story  of  old  Hugh 
To  him  whose  face,  averted  from  the  glow, 
Still  lurks  in  gloom.     The  winds  of  battle  blow 
Once  more  along  the  steep.     Again  one  sees 
The  rescue  from  the  fury  of  the  Rees, 
The  graybeard's  fondness  for  the  gay  lad ;  then 
The  westward  march  with  Major  Henry's  men 
With  all  that  happened  there  upon  the  Grand. 

"And  so  we  hit  the  trail  of  Henry's  band," 
The  youth  continues;  "for  we  feared  to  die: 
And  dread  of  shame  was  ready  with  the  lie 
We  carried  to  our  comrades.     Hugh  was  dead 
And  buried  there  beside  the  Grand,  we  said. 
Could  any  doubt  that  what  we  said  was  true  ? 
They  even  praised  our  courage !     But  I  knew ! 
The  nights  were  hell  because  I  heard  his  cries 
And  saw  the  crows  a-pecking  at  his  eyes, 


JAMIE  123 

The  kiotes  tearing  at  him.    O  my  God  ! 

I  tried  and  tried  to  think  him  under  sod ; 

But  every  time  I  slept  it  was  the  same. 

And  then  one  night  —  I  lay  awake  —  he  came ! 

I  say  he  came  —  I  know  I  hadn't  slept ! 

Amid  a  light  like  rainy  dawn,  he  crept 

Out  of  the  dark  upon  his  hands  and  knees. 

The  wound  he  got  that  day  among  the  Rees 

Was  like  red  fire.     A  snarl  of  bloody  hair 

Hung  round  the  eyes  that  had  a  pleading  stare, 

And  down  the  ruined  face  and  gory  beard 

Big  tear-drops  rolled.     He  went  as  he  appeared, 

Trailing  a  fog  of  light  that  died  away. 

And  I  grew  old  before  I  saw  the  day. 

0  Father,  I  had  paid  too  much  for  breath ! 
The  Devil  traffics  in  the  fear  of  death, 
And  may  God  pity  anyone  who  buys 

What  I  have  bought  with  treachery  and  lies  — 
This  rat-like  gnawing  in  my  breast ! 

"I  knew 

1  couldn't  rest  until  I  buried  Hugh ; 
And  so  I  told  the  Major  I  would  go 
To  Atkinson  with  letters,  ere  the  snow 

Had    choked    the    trails.     Jules   wouldn't   come 

along ; 
He  didn't  seem  to  realize  the  wrong ; 


124  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

He  called  me  foolish,  couldn't  understand. 
I  rode  alone  —  not  south,  but  to  the  Grand. 
Daylong  my  horse  beat  thunder  from  the  sod, 
Accusing  me ;   and  all  my  prayers  to  God 
Seemed  flung  in  vain  at  bolted  gates  of  brass. 
And  in  the  night  the  wind  among  the  grass 
Hissed  endlessly  the  story  of  my  shame. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  rode :   I  came 

Upon  the  Grand  at  last,  and  found  the  place, 

And  it  was  empty.     Not  a  sign  or  trace 

Was  left  to  show  what  end  had  come  to  Hugh. 

And  oh  that  grave !     It  gaped  upon  the  blue, 

A  death-wound  pleading  dumbly  for  the  slain. 

I  filled  it  up  and  fled  across  the  plain, 

And  somehow  came  to  Atkinson  at  last. 

And  there  I  heard  the  living  Hugh  had  passed 

Along  the  river  northward  in  the  Fall ! 

O  Father,  he  had  found  the  strength  to  crawl 

That  long,  heart-breaking  distance  back  to  life, 

Though  Jules  had  taken  blanket,  steel  and  knife, 

And  I,  his  trusted  comrade,  had  his  gun ! 

"  They  said  I'd  better  stay  at  Atkinson, 
Because  old  Hugh  was  surely  hunting  me, 
White-hot  to  kill.     I  did  not  want  to  flee 
Or  hide  from  him.     I  even  wished  to  die, 
If  so  this  aching  cancer  of  a  lie 


JAMIE  125 

Might  be  torn  out  forever.     So  I  went, 
As  eager  as  the  homesick  homeward  bent, 
In  search  of  him  and  peace. 

But  I  was  cursed. 

For  even  when  his  stolen  rifle  burst 
And  spewed  upon  me  this  eternal  night, 
I  might  not  die  as  any  other  might ; 
But  God  so  willed  that  friendly  Piegans  came 
To  spare  me  yet  a  little  unto  shame. 
0  Father,  is  there  any  hope  for  me  ?" 

i 

"Great  hope  indeed,  my  son !"  so  huskily 

The  other  answers.     "I  recall  a  case 

Like    yours  —  no    matter    what    the    time    and 

place  — 

5Twas  somewhat  like  the  story  that  you  tell ; 
Each  seeking  and  each  sought,  and  both  in  hell; 
But  in  the  tale  I  mind,  they  met  at  last." 

The  youth  sits  up,  white-faced   and   breathing 

fast: 
"They  met,  you  say  ?    What  happened  ?    Quick ! 

Oh  quick!" 

"The  old  man  found  the  dear  lad  blind  and  sick 
And  both  forgave  —  'twas  easy  to  forgive  — 
For  oh  we  have  so  short  a  time  to  live  — " 


126  SONG  OF  HUGH  GLASS 

Whereat  the  youth  :    "Who's  here  ?    The  Black 

Robe's  gone! 
Whose  voice  is  this  ?" 

The  gray  of  winter  dawn 
Now   creeping   round   the   door-flap,   lights   the 

place 

And  shows  thin  fingers  groping  for  a  face 
Deep-scarred  and  hoary  with  the  frost  of  years 
Whereover  runs  a  new  springtide  of  tears. 

"0  Jamie,  Jamie,  Jamie  —  I  am  Hugh  ! 

There  was  no  Black  Robe  yonder  —  Will  I  do  ?" 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


'  I  *HE  following  gages  contain  advertisements 
of  a  few  of  the  Macmillan  books. 


HEW  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

Spoon  River  Anthology 

BY  EDGAR   LEE   MASTERS 

Decorated  doth,  $1.23  ;  leather, 


"  A  work,  splendid  in  observation,  marvelous  in  the  artistry 
of  exclusion,  yet  of  democratic  inclusiveness,  -piercingly  an- 
alytic of  character,  of  plastic  fictility  of  handling,  sympathetic 
underneath  irony,  humorous,  pathetic,  tragic,  comic,  particular 
yet  universal  —  a  Comedie  Humaine  —  a  creation  of  a  whole 
community  of  personalties." 

—  Wm.  Marion  Reedy  in  the  Mirror. 

"The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  ...  the  only  poet 
with  true  Americanism  in  his  bones." 

—  John  Cowper  Powys  in  New  York  Times. 

"A  wonderfully  vivid  series  of  transcripts  from  real  life." 

—  Current  Opinion. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  that  in  <  Spoon  River  Anthology  '  Mr. 
Masters  speaks  with  a  new  and  authentic  voice.  It  is  an 
illuminating  piece  of  work,  and  an  unforgettable  one." 

—  Chicago  Post. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

Vision  of  War 

BY  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

Cloth)  I2m0)  $1^3;  leather  ',  $1.50 


In  unrhymed  rhythms  Lincoln  Colcord  describes 
vividly  the  present  war,  life  in  the  trenches  and  the  suf- 
fering of  the  wounded.  He  shows  great  power  for 
realism,  but  also  emphasizes  a  phase  of  warfare  that 
has  been  too  often  ignored  —  its  spiritual  glory.  The 
theme  of  the  poem  is  two-fold  :  war,  its  characteristics 
and  its  effect  on  civilization,  and  the  need  of  various 
reforms  in  human  society  ;  from  this  it  is  but  a  step  to 
the  second  theme,  which  is,  in  reality,  a  vision  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man  or  possibly  a  belief  in  the  ideals 
and  dreams  which  shall  ultimately  inspire  men  and  lift 
them  above  narrowness  and  selfishness.  Mr.  Colcord 
has  written  with  remarkable  power  and  imagination; 
he  has  bound  the  big  with  the  little,  the  real  with  the 
ideal,  and  played  his  moods  and  incidents  with  unerring 
discrimination.  "  Vision  of  War  "  is  a  poem  of  unified 
and  sustained  power  ;  it  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
literary  productions  yet  called  forth  by  the  European 
struggles. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

The  Pilgrim   Kings :    Greco  and   Goya 
and  Other  Poems  of  Spain 

BY  THOMAS   WALSH 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.25 ;  leather,  $1.50 

Mr.  Walsh  knows  and  loves  his  Spain,  both  of  this  and  of  an 
earlier  day,  and  many  of  his  poems  celebrate  the  glories  of  the 
great  artists  of  that  country.  Along  with  their  rich  and  unusual 
culture,  there  is  in  these  poems  a  vein  of  mysticism  and  of  under- 
standing of  the  Church  which  will  commend  Mr.  Walsh's  verses  to 
readers  of  widely  different  tastes. 

Rivers  to  the  Sea 

BY  SARA  TEASDALE 

Cloth,  izmo,  $1.2 j  ;  leather,  $1.30 

The  author  of  this  book  is  widely  known,  and  favorably,  through 
her  contributions  to  the  magazines,  and  the  publication  of  the 
present  collection  of  poems  will  be  welcomed  by  all  lovers  of  litera- 
ture. The  volume  opens  with  a  sequence  of  love  lyrics  which,  taken 
together,  unfold  an  interesting  romance.  Each  lyric  is  complete  in 
itself  and  possesses  a  quaint  simplicity  and  human  quality.  Follow- 
ing the  love  lyrics  come  poems  on  scattering  themes  and  the  work 
closes  with  a  trilogy  called  "  Sapho." 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of 
Robert  Browning 

New  Globe  Edition,  with  additional  poems  first  published  in  1914 
Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.73;  Leather, 


There  have  been  added  to  this  standard  edition  of  Browning's  works  those  new 
poems  which  were  first  published  in  a  separate  volume  in  1914,  together  with  a 
number  of  other  poems  not  hitherto  included,  as  well  as  an  introduction  by  Sir 
Frederic  G.  Kenyon  on  the  Browning  Manuscripts  and  Robert  Browning's  An- 
swers to  Questions  Concerning  Some  of  His  Poems.  These  additions  make  this 
the  most  complete  and  authoritative  edition  of  Browning's  writings  ever  published. 


Six  French  Poets 


BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Author  of  "  Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,"  "  A  Dome  of  Many-Col- 
oured Glass,"  etc. 

Cloth,  ismo 

Here  Miss  Lowell  in  a  series  of  biographical  and  critical  essays  deals  with 
Emile  Verhaeren,  Albert  Samain,  Remy  de  Gourmont,  Henri  de  Regnier,  Fran- 
cis Jammes,  and  Paul  Fort.  This  is  the  first  English  book  to  contain  a  minute 
and  careful  study  of  these  famous  writers,  who  belong  to  the  generation  immedi- 
ately succeeding  that  of  Verlaine  and  Mallarme'.  It  is  being  realized  by  students 
that  the  epoch  just  passing  away  in  France  has  been  one  of  the  greatest  poetical 
epochs  in  French  history.  .Si.*  French  Poets  is  a  brilliant  series  of  studies  of 
the  principal  poets  of  this  period,  themselves,  their  work,  and  their  relations  to 
their  times.  Each  essay  is  preceded  by  a  portrait  and  facsimile  signature,  and  is 
illustrated  by  a  number  of  poems  in  the  original  French,  with  translations  in  an 
appendix. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


HEW  MACMILLAN  PLAYS 

The  Life  of  Man 

A  Play  in  Five  Acts. 
BY  LEONID  ANDREYEV 

Author  of  "  Anathema,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.23 

This  powerful  play  by  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  the  modern  school 
of  dramatists  should  be  read  by  all  who  desire  to  keep  pace  with  the  spirit 
and  tendencies  of  present-day  art  and  literature  in  Russia.  For  here  is 
truly  displayed  Andreyev's  genius  in  the  most  characteristic  manner.  The 
Life  of  Man  has  been  translated  by  J.  G.  Hogarth. 

The  Porcupine 

BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

Author  of  "  Van  Zorn,"  "  Captain  Craig,"  etc. 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $7.23 

In  manner  and  technique  this  three-act  drama  'recalls  some  of  the  work 
of  Ibsen.  Written  adroitly  and  with  the  literary  cleverness  exhibited  in  Van 
Zorn,  it  tells  a  story  of  a  domestic  entanglement  in  a  dramatic  fashion  well 
calculated  to  hold  the  reader's  attention. 

The  Faithful 

BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Author  of  "  The  Tragedy  of  Pompey  the  Great,"  "  Philip 
the  King,"  etc. 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.23  ;  leather,  $1.50 

Mr.  Masefield's  contributions  to  dramatic  literature  are  held  in  quite  as 
high  esteem  by  his  admirers  as  his  narrative  poems.  In  The  Faithful,  his 
new  play,  he  is  at  his  best.  It  is  described  as  a  powerful  piece  of  writing, 
vivid  in  characterization  and  gripping  in  theme. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


IMPORTANT  NEW  WORKS 

John  M.  Synge 

A  Few  Personal  Recollections  with  Biographical  Notes 
BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Author  of  "  The  Everlasting  Mercy,"  etc. 

With  frontispiece.     Boards,  i2mo 
Edition  limited  to  500  numbered  copies,  $1.00 

An  interesting  little  book  is  this  in  which  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished poets  of  the  day  gives  his  impressions  of  Synge.  The  matter 
is  very  intimate  in  nature,  narrating  Mr.  Masefield's  relations  with 
the  Irish  writer,  reproducing  conversations  with  him  and  throwing 
in  this  personal  way  new  light  on  the  character  and  genius  of  the 
man. 

The  Art  of  the  Moving  Picture 

BY  VACHEL  LINDSAY 

Author  of  "  The  Congo  and  Other  Poems,"  etc. 

Cloth,  izmo,  $i.JO 

Mr.  Lindsay's  book  is  one  of  the  first  to  be  written  in  appreciation 
of  the  moving  picture.  His  purpose  is  to  show  how  to  classify  and 
judge  the  better  films.  He  describes  the  types  of  photo  plays,  dis- 
cusses the  likeness  of  the  motion  picture  to  the  old  Egyptian  picture 
writing,  summarizes  the  one  hundred  main  points  of  difference  be- 
tween the  legitimate  drama  and  the  film  drama,  indicates  that  the 
best  censorship  is  a  public  sense  of  beauty  and  takes  up  the  value  of 
scientific  films,  news  films,  educational  and  political  films.  The 
volume  closes  with  some  sociological  observations  on  the  conquest 
of  the  motion  picture,  which  he  regards  as  a  force  as  revolutionary 
as  was  the  invention  of  printing. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


THE  MACMILLAN  MODERN  POETS 

Each  volume  leather,  12mo,  $1.50 

The  Story  of  a  Roundhouse.     By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  Faithful.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  Tragedy  of  Pompey  the  Great.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Philip  the  King  and  Other  Poems.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

A  Mainsail  Haul.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  Daffodil  Fields.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  Everlasting  Mercy.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Salt  Water  Ballads.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Spoon  River  Anthology.    By  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

The  Congo  and  Other  Poems.     By  VACHEL  LINDSAY 

Crack  0'  Dawn.    By  FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS 

Fires.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

Daily  Bread.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

Womenkind.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

Poems.    By  ALFRED  No  YES 

Vision  of  War.     By  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

Rivers  to  the  Sea.    By  SARA  TEASDALE 

The  Pilgrim  Kings.     By  THOMAS  WALSH 

The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass.    By  JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 

The  work  of  the  more  popular  of  the  modern  poets  is  now 
to  be  available  in  attractive  leather  bindings.  A  number  of 
the  books  included  in  the  series  are  new  publications  this  year 
—  "Rivers  to  the  Sea,"  "The  Pilgrim  Kings,"  "Vision  of 
War,"  «  Crack  O'  Dawn,"  "  The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass,"  "  The 
Faithful,"  and  "  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  for  example  —  but 
whether  new  or  old  they  are  all  the  work  of  established  authors 
warranting  preservation  in  this  more  elaborate  form. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


